


If There Were Any Time For A Miracle

by Berty



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Birthday Party, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Tree, First Kiss, First Time, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28363887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: John and Sherlock are spending Christmas at the Holmes' family home.Sherlock has a plan that John doesn't know about.John has a wish that Sherlock doesn't know about.If there were any time for a miracle, this would be it.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 84
Kudos: 248





	1. December 23rd

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Toga-Party 2020 Annual Advent Event and posted late as usual!

**December 23rd**

**11.20 a.m. **

"Sherlock?" John pops his head around the bedroom door and finds the madman half-dressed and investigating the silvering on the back of his (probably) antique mirror with a manicure set. The strangest thing about this is that John doesn't find it strange at all. Not anymore. He just carries on as if this is a normal thing to find your flatmate doing.

"Do I need to bring something smart to wear? Do your family go to midnight mass or anything?"

Sherlock emits a scornful huff which would be more effective if he weren't in just his underwear and shirt. 

"Some of them do despite being perfectly rational for the remainder of the year. I have yet to understand what it is about Christmas that turns people into idiots who blindly conform to ritual practices for a religion that they don't follow or have a moment's notice for other than for such festivals or social conventions like dunking babies in water or watching people, who are often already neck deep in infidelity, blow tens of thousands of pounds on a posh dress and a big party."

When he seems to have run out of steam, John tunes back in. Really, the boxers and shirt thing should look ridiculous, but it really doesn't. 

_Really_.

Doesn't.

John clears his throat. "So, that's a yes then?"

Sherlock stares at him over the top of the mirror and sighs - long, loud and very rudely.

"Righty-ho!" John scrapes a smile and goes back to his packing. 

Their car arrives outside Baker Street about half an hour later and Sherlock emerges from his bedroom looking like he has spent all morning getting ready, from his perfect curls to his polished shoes via his matched luggage. They climb in and settle back for the journey to Gloucestershire and John wonders when private cars and discreet, suited drivers became as normal as mental flatmates. 

Sherlock fidgets, drumming his fingers on his knees. He grabs John's arm, glaring at his wristwatch after only ten minutes and before they have even made it out of central London.

"We should be there by two. I can't imagine why we have to be there so early," Sherlock grumbles, studying John's watch with unwarranted focus.

"To celebrate Christmas?" John offers, trying not to notice how Sherlock's warm fingers fit so easily around his wrist. It's not helpful or relevant. It's just his hand is so warm and... big. 

"That's not for two days," Sherlock scowls, casting John's arm away in disgust. "Tonight is Father's party, but we could have left much later than this and still been in plenty of time. Bloody Mycroft!"

"Sorry, what party now?" You can almost hear the screech of John's mind derailing from where it was happily heading. He should be used to the sinking sensation in his stomach when he learns that Sherlock has committed them to a situation having only given him half the damn story, but it catches him every time.

"Birthday. Eightieth."

"What? Why didn't you tell me that?" John protests pointlessly.

"Why? Is it a problem?"

"No, it's... Yes! Yes, it's a bloody problem. I haven't..." About to launch into yet another explanation of considerate human behaviour, John notices an off-licence as they drive by and he raps on the glass partition between them and the driver, who obediently pulls over. John hops out leaving Sherlock looking affronted and bemused. God, he's such a twat!

"Wait!" John orders and runs back to buy something ridiculously expensive but hopefully appropriate. Either way, it's better than turning up without a present for Sherlock's dad. He also shells out for a gift bag and waits impatiently while the cashier wraps the bottle in tissue paper and pops it in the bag.

He double times it back to the car and chucks himself back into his seat with a scowl. The driver slides back into the traffic without a fuss while Sherlock ignores him.

“Honestly, you're such a cock sometimes. Why not just tell me it was your dad's birthday?"

"Is it relevant?" Sherlock asks in his most carefully affected bored voice, then adds, "he doesn't like whiskey anyway."

Sherlock just sniffs and shrugs when John throws his hands up and rolls his eyes heavenward. 

**1.09 p.m.**

John hasn't spoken since the whiskey remark. Sherlock glances surreptitiously at John's wrist and sees that forty five minutes has passed. He's been in his mind palace reviewing all the pertinent possibilities, variables and opportunities available to him when they reach the cottage, listing them by duration, proximity and how much they might appeal to a man like John Watson. His guest. His plus one. His flatmate and friend. And, if he has any say in the matter, by the time they leave on Boxing Day, his partner. 

Too ambiguous. 

His lover? Maybe, but it lacks subtlety and fails to encompass all that John has come to mean to him. 

His boyfriend, then? Can people their age even have 'boy'friends? He needs to check the nomenclature. 

Sherlock watches John in his periphery. He's not frowning any more, so that's encouraging, although Sherlock does love it when John gets huffy and shouty; it makes his face so delightfully expressive. There's no way you can miss that you have done something mildly not good when John is looking at you with his mouth pursed, his breaths coming too fast and brows lowered over stormy eyes. It's wonderful. 

No, with John, it's when he gets quiet that you need to worry. Like now, in fact. 

"Maybe he can put it to use in a Hot Toddy if it's going to get as cold as they predict it will."

John seems to come back from somewhere far away.

"What? Oh... yeah. Yeah, maybe," he agrees absently, his eyes straying back to the countryside sliding past the window. “Good idea.”

Sulking perhaps? Sherlock chances a glance at John. He doesn't look disgruntled or long-suffering - two of his favourite expressions. He looks pensive and a little uncertain which seems strange. John has met his parents before so there's no need for him to feel uncomfortable about that. Perhaps it's the party that he has reservations about and he wouldn’t be alone in that. His family and father’s friends for an entire evening - it sounds tedious. But John is usually quite confident in such social situations. 

Sherlock abruptly wonders if perhaps John has a mind palace of his own. He delights in wondering what that might be like before he remembers that he's supposed to be paying some attention to John out here in the real world.

Another stolen glance at John provides little more information of a useful nature. (He already knows how fetching the grey beginning to streak his hair is and how very expressive and mobile John's lips are, even when he's silent.) Whatever it is that’s bothering him, this isn't the start that Sherlock was hoping for really, and it doesn't bode well for the rest of their visit. Sherlock prudently decides to remain quiet until he has more data rather than risk making John's mood worse.

They arrive at the cottage soon after three. Sherlock endures his mother's clucking but finds that he enjoys the genuine warmth with which John and his mother greet each other. Father too seems very happy to see John again and makes suitably appreciative noises when John hands over the hastily but kindly chosen birthday present. When he tells Father that Sherlock had ratted him out about not being a whiskey drinker, Father says that he has started to have a tot of the stuff on his breakfast porridge and that it warms him up no end on colder days. John seems pleased by this and smiles warmly, even at Sherlock. The relief is as ridiculous as it is welcome.

Mummy offers them tea, coffee or hot chocolate at which Sherlock scoffs reminding her that he is a grown man now.

"I would say that's open for debate,” John laughs, “and there's no age limit for hot chocolate. But I'd love a cuppa if you're having one."

Mummy and Father sit with them at the kitchen table and share a pot of tea, droning on about tedious things which Sherlock deletes immediately and John replies to with polite interest. His mother offers a plate of her renowned mince pies (Sherlock takes two and plans to steal John's when he's not looking). He knows he is betraying his impatience, and he hopes that John is under the mistaken impression that it is due to the small-talk - he has it half right, admittedly. But Sherlock's opening gambit in his plan to woo John is about to play out and he's keen for the off. 

Pleasantries _finally_ dispensed with, Sherlock announces that he will take John upstairs to where they are sleeping and unpack. John tries to offer help with the preparations, causing a twitch in Sherlock's eyelid that cannot be terribly attractive, but he is shooed away by Mummy, so he grabs his bag from the hall and follows up to their room. 

Sherlock has his excuses all ready when he throws open the door to his old bedroom (no room at the local hostelries / he will sleep downstairs on the sofa (John will never make him do that) / all the other bedrooms are occupied or uninhabitable) but sadly they prove to be unnecessary. In place of his own comfortable double bed there are an obscene pair of twin beds, one pressed against either wall with six feet of non-John filled space between them.

John, not realising that a major part of Sherlock's plan has just been blown out of the water, pushes past and calls dibs on the bed on the left.

**3.52 p.m**

A suddenly furious Sherlock all but flies out of his room, and John is confidently predicting a tongue-lashing for someone.

"Mummy? What have you done to my bedroom?" Sherlock yells, his mother's muffled response coming from downstairs, and John hears big, expensively shod feet thumping down the stairs at speed before a door slams and relative peace descends again on the house.

John has no idea what has got Sherlock in such a snit - his room is perfectly nice. Perhaps it's the fact that he's going to have to share with John that has him in such a state, although it's not as if they have never had to share before on cases where they have spent a night away from London. John shrugs - he seems to spend half his life these days wondering what is going on with his lanky, unpredictable flat mate. This outburst appears to be relatively low-key in that there's nothing exploding, no blood and no master criminals involved. Life is never dull when you live with the only consulting detective in the world.

John puts his bag down and sits down on the bed that he has chosen. The Holmes's must have decorated since their son slept here - there's very little of the man he knows left in this tastefully bland room - a few books, a venerable teddy bear and some very random botanical and geological objects on a shelf, a music stand and a pile of sheet music by the window - nothing embarrassing that John might put to use as teasing material. It still gives him a pang when he remembers how long it took Sherlock to learn that teasing, when John was doing it, was something that came from affection and fondness and not an unkindness. It took the berk even longer to learn how to do it himself after a few spectacular misses. 

Sherlock bundles back into the room then, his face still thunderous until he sees John already sitting on one of the beds. 

"Are you alright? What 's the problem?" John asks.

"Nothing, it's fine. We have other guests staying as well apparently."

"Oh yes? Family or...?"

"My cousins - on my father's side."

"That's... nice," John ventures, looking at Sherlock for confirmation and receiving a roll of his eyes, so dramatic that he's surprised it doesn't do permanent damage.

"What's wrong with them?

"Other than that they have my bed? Oh nothing, they're just a bit dull," Sherlock huffs. "Odelia is an artist and her husband Robert is an actor. Crispian is a musician, like my father."

"I didn't know your dad was a musician. You never said," John says, impressed and wondering how that list of relations constitutes 'dull'.

"You never asked," Sherlock shrugs in a typically irritating manner.

John can never tell if it's deliberate or another example of Sherlock's bizarre lack of social acuity.

"Okay, so I'm asking now. What does he play?"

"Professionally, he was a cellist. He played with the Royal Philharmonic for many years, but he can turn his hand to many different instruments."

John nods, "That's great. Did he teach you to play?"

"At first, yes."

"And... Crispian, was it? Is he a cellist too?"

"No, he's one of the foremost oboists in the world at the moment."

"Wow!" John grins. "What an impressive family you have." He wonders if Sherlock even knows how rare it is to have one celebrity relative. Growing up in a family like the Holmeses he suspects not.

Sherlock merely grunts and tells John that they still have a couple of hours before the celebration starts, and they have been told to keep out of the way of the company hired to cater and organise the evening. So they take it in turns to use the adjoining bathroom, then decide to have a bit of a toes-up on their respective beds until it's time to dress for the party. John hasn't brought anything to read, so he takes down a copy of Swallows and Amazons that looks like it has seen some action. 

"Do you mind?" John asks, holding up the book hopefully.

Sherlock shakes his head and shrugs eloquently. "Help yourself."

"Thanks," John says and opens the front cover to find Sherlock's unformed scrawl; _This book belongs to William Sherlock Scott Holmes._ This could be the teasing material that John was just thinking of, but he finds that he hasn't the heart for it when he glances at his friend.

Sherlock has taken off his shoes and jacket and lies on his back, eyes closed his hands together and resting against his chin. He's really too long for the single bed and he has his ankles crossed, his heels over the end of the mattress. His toes flex and curl restlessly, even though the rest of him is completely still. Whatever it was that had him in such a strop has clearly been forgotten, John thinks as he gazes across to where his favourite idiot is happily lost in his mind palace.

**7.51 p.m**

This is not turning out the way Sherlock had planned at all. First his parents have changed the large double bed in his old bedroom for two tiny twin beds, neither of which is large enough for two grown men to fit in, regardless of whether one of them is more diminutive than the other, so even if he did engineer some mishap that rendered one of the beds unusable, it would just mean one of them spending a night on the sofa or on the floor - neither of which coincides with Sherlock's aims. And now his dreadful, tedious cousins have commandeered John and they have him cornered by the terrace windows, probably telling lies about Sherlock's childhood. 

John keeps sending amused glances towards Sherlock; he thinks it might be fondness, but he can't be sure at this distance. And really, he ought to go over there and say something so devastatingly obvious (or 'insulting', as John calls it) to send both Crispian and Odelia off to find their mother to tell on Sherlock. Again. It's been a good while since the last time, so it's probably about time that particular family tradition was revived.

He hasn't seen his father's side of the family for some years although his mother gives him regular unsolicited updates about their boring, insignificant lives. Odelia and her husband have apparently left their enormous brood of children at home with their nanny and Sherlock cannot decide if that's a good thing or if the entire party would be enlivened by some children to whom he could show pictures of crime scenes - they are often quite fascinated in his experience. And Crispian, well he has grown up a lot since last Sherlock encountered him. He has the Holmes' curly hair but not their height, being only 5' 10". He's monopolising John to the extent that even his sister has gone off to talk to some other dreary relative or another. John is nursing a glass of wine and laughing at something his cousin is saying when they are all called to the table, and John smiles when Crispian indicates that he should take a seat next to him.

Sherlock is definitely not having that. He swiftly crosses the room and pastes on a smile and cheerfully addresses his cousin.

"How are you these days, Crispian? Sorted out the nocturnal enuresis now? Yes? Good! Have you perhaps noticed... the uh...?" He points to a corner of the large dining room and when his cousin politely turns to look, Sherlock slides into the chair that he had pulled out for himself.

Crispian's face reflects that he knows what Sherlock is up to, but he graciously cedes the chair to him, and instead of retiring to the other side of the table, he slips around to John's other side and takes a seat there. 

"Sherlock, how lovely to see you. John here has just been getting me up to speed with all your exploits. I must say it all sounds rather thrilling and a tiny bit reckless," he says with an ingenuous smile.

"To the amateur and the unimaginative, I suppose it could look that way," Sherlock explains, trying to be patient. "When, in fact, everything we do in the pursuit of justice is well thought out and supported by a myriad of relevant data, keeping any risk to an absolute minimum."

Crispian looks mildly impressed until he responds, "But John tells me that you've fallen in the Thames twice this year already."

"But enough about us, what's with you?" Sherlock neatly ignores the annoying man's comment and continues as if John had not just stabbed him in the back with his loose tongue. "Anything new in re-hashing centuries old music?"

Crispian takes a breath and then pauses to look speculatively at John for a moment. He catches Sherlock's narrowed gaze, a small knowing smile gracing his handsome face. Damn him. 

"Oh, not much," he says airily. "Deathly dull. I've just come back from Austria, recording some Handel with the Vienna Philharmonic. The Christmas Markets were rather lovely in the snow - have you ever been? And then in a week I'm off to Boston for a few days to teach a masterclass. No rest for the wicked as they say." He aims this last phrase at John, who smiles and nods, apparently completely taken in by this false show of humility.

"Not if there's a major river nearby, certainly," John quips with a quick grin and a wink at them both. 

Crispian laughs as if he's just said something utterly hilarious. 

Idiot.

**8.49 p.m.**

John barely notices what he's eating, so animated are his neighbours at the table. He knows it was delicious, but that's about as much as he can say with any confidence. He's even forgotten (more or less) that his suit, although recently purchased, is no match for those of the company he is keeping tonight.

Sherlock has been regaling them with stories of crimes he has solved, some that John was involved in and one or two from before he knew him. And Crispian has been matching him, story for story, with tales of intrigue from the classical music circuit (more cut-throat and bitchy than John had imagined) and snippets of (mostly scandalous) information about the lives of some great composers from a book he is writing between gigs.

If there seems to be some tension between the two men, John puts it down to some kind of residual familial rivalry. Sherlock and Crispian are of similar age and both are the products of this unique family's upbringing style. Both brilliant in their fields, both whip smart, witty and dry, John rarely recalls having spent a more entertaining evening at a dinner party. Crispian had asked John for some of his own stories and had been sensitive enough not to press on the subjects that John had been reluctant to pick up. Strangely this had made John more open than he had been in a long time. In some ways, Crispian reminds John of Sherlock - and not just because of the striking good looks and trademark curls - and if John has relaxed more quickly than he normally would in the presence of a new acquaintance, he puts it down to that similarity.

“So your experience in the military and medicine really complement your new role as Sherlock’s… associate?” Crispian offers, feeling his way words the correct term. John can’t blame him; _associate_ is one of the more acceptable ways that he’s been described. 

“John is invaluable to my work,” Sherlock corrects Crispian coolly, surprising John who was expecting to have to field that one. “More than that, he is invaluable to me personally.”

John tries to school his face to show no surprise and only allows himself a small, modest smile. He’s not sure, but he wonders whether Sherlock actually meant to make quite such a sweeping statement. His friend’s eyes only flick once to seek John’s reaction before they settle back squarely on Crispian who seems suitably impressed by Sherlock’s ringing endorsement. Their staring match gives John a few seconds to calm the warm thrill in his belly and to remind himself that Sherlock doesn’t mean _invaluable_ or _personally_ the way John might like him to. 

He has only ever seen Sherlock interact with his brother and his parents before - never any extended family, and John can't help but be fascinated by the dynamics. His flatmate seems to be keen to tell stories which show them both in a good light, where it was their partnership that was beneficial in providing a positive outcome. In some cases John hadn't even been aware that his poor contributions had provoked Sherlock to his feats of deductive reasoning. Crispian seems fascinated by the way they work together and is very generous in his praise of John's assists which just makes Sherlock glare more. This makes no sense to John; why would Sherlock choose to tell those particular stories only to become cross at Crispian's enthusiasm?

When the dessert has been cleared, Sherlock's father stands up and makes a very pretty speech about spending his birthday with so many people he loves and with such a talented group. John smiles and feels increasingly out of place as it becomes clear that Sherlock's dad is, in fact, a very highly regarded musician and that many of the people who he is sharing a table with are famous names in their respective fields. If they are not family, then they all seem to be involved in the performing arts in some way; a couple of opera singers, a specialist in medieval music, a composer - the list goes on, all the information provided sotto voce by Sherlock or Crispian. 

The speech is warm and well received and then, at Mycroft's prompting, everybody toasts the birthday boy and they all retire to a room at the opposite end of the house that John has not seen so far. It's a large sitting room, going by the sofas and side tables, but there is a baby grand piano in pride of place. A roaring fire at one end of the room is lit, giving the place a cosy warmth and a homely scent. John takes a seat on one of the sofas and Sherlock perches himself on the arm beside him leaving Crispian to sit on his other side once more.

As one of the women takes her place at the piano, an older man stands, wishes Mr Holmes a happy birthday, then sings something that John has never heard of. It's clear that the man is a bit of a big deal and the swell of applause when he finishes and takes a small bow is heartfelt. There is a flautist and a harpist next playing something light and pretty that Sherlock tells him is Mozart. Even to John's untrained ear, the standard is dazzlingly high.

When the fifth piece, played by a solo pianist, is finished and everyone is clapping and sharing congratulations on their performances, John leans up toward Sherlock who bends his neck to hear, sending John a delicious waft of his friend’s shampoo and cologne.

"I feel like a complete fraud being here with all these classical musical stars. Remind me why I'm here," John mutters.

"Because you were invited mostly, but also for moral support," Sherlock tells him, which strikes him as an odd thing to say and the madman won't meet his curious gaze. 

John is prevented from asking anything more by Crispian, who chooses that moment to stand up and move to the front of the group. The pianist has kept her seat and waits for Crispian to pick up his instrument from the corner of the room to return and introduce his piece which he does with humour and humility and a sweet anecdote about spending time with Mr Holmes Senior when he was a child which had put him off the cello forever but opened up the world of his own instrument to him. Everyone laughs indulgently (except Sherlock who sighs none too quietly) and then listens as Crispian plays an achingly sweet and beautiful piece. John didn't even know that an oboe could sound so plaintive as that. So intense is the draw of the music that John notices even Sherlock stops fidgeting and listens. 

John is the first to congratulate Crispian as he sits down to enthusiastic applause after his piece.

"That was beautiful," he tells him honestly, surprised by his reaction. He turns towards the modest, smiling man at his side. "Amazing. Just amazing."

**10.10 p.m.**

Sherlock's heart plummets when he overhears John's praise of his cousin's playing. It's true - you could not criticise the performance. Crispian, for all his faults, is an acclaimed musician for a reason and John's words are no more than the truth. However it is the tone of John's voice that makes Sherlock taste ashes. That is the voice he uses to praise Sherlock when they are on cases - when he has been especially brilliant or quick or made connections that no one else could have. And the worst part is that Crispian deserves John's admiration - but Sherlock resents that that particular note in John’s voice isn't for him alone any more.

So chummy are Crispian and John in their mutual admiration that it has given Sherlock pause. He'd imagined that his friendship with John was of a closer nature than those others of his acquaintance. He'd thought that their interactions were of a singularly warm and intimate nature. Having seen John now interact with Crispian, Sherlock is doubting everything he has based his plan on. Perhaps he has this all wrong, perhaps he has been wrong for a long time. He doesn't exactly have an extensive list of other friendships to base his assumptions on. Maybe what he'd thought was the spark between them, that he identified early on and only lately has come to believe in, is nothing but John's natural openness and warmth. Perhaps they are indeed just friends and Sherlock's entire campaign to win John's love or to let him know that it would not be misplaced is nothing more than his own interpretation of a kind man's actions.

Or perhaps, and somehow this is worse, Sherlock is indeed John's greatest friend, but perhaps Crispian has something that Sherlock lacks; some undefined quality that makes him a potential mate and that forever relegates Sherlock to the role of quirky best friend. Looked at objectively, it is easy to see that Crispian with his easy charm and his good looks, not to mention his international musical reputation and lifestyle, make him a much more attractive potential partner for a man like John. The fact that John has insisted on several occasions that he was not gay does not negate the truth that he does find men attractive and has simply not acted upon it. Perhaps what Sherlock has been interpreting as John's growing awareness of himself is actually John learning to understand his own sexuality and become comfortable enough with it to experiment with it a little. Of course someone uncomplicatedly gay but not at all camp like Crispian would appeal to a recently confirmed bisexual man like John.

John is still asking banal questions of his cousin when Mycroft takes a seat at the piano. He looks across to Sherlock, his eyes flicking to John and Crispian for a split second before coming back to rest on Sherlock to greet his gaze with his blandest expression. Mycroft's lips quirk slightly as he tilts his head, inviting Sherlock to join him. 

John doesn't even notice when Sherlock stands and makes his way to where his violin case is standing open ready for him to reach in and take his instrument. It's familiar and grounding, and Sherlock derives a stability he badly needs in the simple act of tightening his bow and fitting his hand to the neck of his violin. Composing himself as best he can, he comes to stand beside his brother. He asks for an A, so he can check he's in tune. Mycroft obliges and Sherlock softly echoes it, adjusting minutely until he's pitch perfect. He nods shortly to Mycroft who plays the opening chords. 

It’s a progression that even John will know with his charmingly limited awareness of any music written before his teen years. Indeed, John's gaze turns quickly towards the piano when he recognises the notes, his eyes widening when he sees Sherlock standing at his brother's side. Sherlock lowers his gaze and comes in perfectly on cue. It's a hackneyed piece if he's honest, the Canon in D by Pachelbel, but it is one of John's favourites and he will have heard Sherlock practicing it recently. Originally for 3 violins and a basso continuo, Sherlock has arranged this version so his brother can actually do some work for a change and provide both harmony and bass, with Sherlock taking the majority of the melody. It's not going to win awards but it's a piece that he and his brother used to play together when Sherlock was first becoming proficient. 

When Mycroft takes the melody, Sherlock looks up to where his father is sitting next to his mother. He has on a dinner suit and bow tie that Sherlock thinks are probably older than Mycroft is. The jacket, especially, is so outdated now that it has come back into fashion again with its burgundy, velvet shawl lapel. The fact that he can still get into it after all these years is something he puts down to dancing with their mother. Sherlock watches as Father reaches out a hand to Mummy, who takes it in her own. They both have a suspiciously misty quality to their smiles and shining eyes. So they do remember. He and Mycroft knew they couldn't compete with the other musicians on the guest list, but their adequate rendition of something with such a personal twist seems to have hit the mark, judging by his father's soft smile.

Sherlock avoids John's face, not quite being able to predict what he will see there, and focuses on bringing his best to the rest of their piece before they both take a short bow and make way for their father to make one last thank you to everyone for their performances, leaving everyone happy.

The guests break up into smaller groups as more drinks are served, and Sherlock would be lying if he said he hadn't noticed John, accepting a glass from Crispian and moving to the side of the room to talk.

Sherlock stays away, talks to his brother and smiles as politely as he can when Father introduces him to the young cellist who is a student of his, but as soon as is barely socially acceptable, he excuses himself and goes off into the kitchen to find some peace. 

The caterers are just finishing the clearing down but they ignore him when he goes to sit in the armchair next to the range cooker. It doesn't take Mycroft very long to find him, of course. He wasn't hiding, so he need not look so triumphant when he spots him.

"I think everyone is beginning to leave. It might be polite to be there as people go." Mycroft says, conversely taking the armchair opposite. 

"I'm all out of politeness for the evening," Sherlock replies tartly. He needs to think in order to mitigate the damage to his plans so far. 

Mycroft tips his head and contemplates his brother. "I saw your doctor looking for you."

Sherlock tries not to react, he really does, but this is Mycroft and no one knows Sherlock's tells better than him. And he knows he has scored a direct hit, but he doesn't capitalise on that, strangely.

"He's not _my_ doctor," Sherlock replies.

"Your friend, then," Mycroft allows. And although the noun can't help but be soured in Mycroft's voice, the way he offers the phrase is more gentle than Sherlock might have credited him with being capable of. 

Sherlock waits to see if there is a lecture to come - Mycroft does love to point out the error of such human frailties - but he simply smiles slightly and stands. "Don't let him wait too long, little brother."

**10.23 p.m.**

John has heard Sherlock play many times, but he'd be lying if he claimed to have an ear for music. He likes what he likes, and he knows that he likes it when Sherlock plays. He couldn't name any of the pieces with confidence, but he recognised the one that Sherlock and Mycroft performed. It's probably his favourite one. Sherlock has been playing it quite often recently and now John knows why.

He loves to watch Sherlock play, and back at home he does so as often as he can without it becoming creepy, so to have the opportunity to sit and openly admire (adore) him was an unexpected treat. It's not creepy if everyone is watching, right? So John made the most of it - watched the way Sherlock swayed and moved with the melody, watched his eyelashes flutter when he played his highest notes and the way his long fingers were so precise and graceful when he was lost to the dynamic of harmonising with his brother's playing. John swears he hardly breathed through the whole thing (which would also explain why he felt a little lightheaded at the end.) 

With his dramatic looks and his austere suits, John used to think that Sherlock's style was all flat planes and hard angles, but when Sherlock plays it softens him. John's known him long enough to realise that the Sherlock Holmes persona is simply that - a persona that his flatmate puts on and takes off as needed. John has since seen the other things that Sherlock is; kind, funny, mischievous - and yes, sulky and bratty and spoiled too. He feels the privilege of having seen all the things that Sherlock is - it's not everyone that gets that close. Or anyone else, actually. So maybe his feelings for his flatmate are understandable - maybe he's not as much of an idiot as he thinks he is - it doesn't seem to help him though. He's still in love with the oblivious bugger and he doesn't even know whether Sherlock knows the meaning of the word - not in the sense that John means, anyway. 

Sherlock had disappeared the second John took his eyes off him for more than a minute and he hasn't caught sight of him since, but Crispian is interesting to talk to, even if he's been dumped by his best friend. He'd rather be talking to Sherlock, but Mycroft joins them a moment later, and he and Crispian spend some time exchanging hollow compliments and scarcely veiled insults - it must be a Holmes trait. John can't help letting his eyes wander as he half listens to the men bicker politely, hoping for a glimpse of his friend. He wants to tell him how beautiful his playing was and how much John enjoyed it . Mycroft keeps flicking glances at him and John wonders what it is that he's giving away here. 

"I believe my brother was looking for you earlier," Mycroft says, finally addressing John directly. "He was deep in the tin in which Mummy keeps the mince pies at the time, so he may have become distracted somewhat."

John nods at Crispian, who looks disappointed and at Mycroft who looks approving, then walks to the kitchen to find out what havoc the man is wreaking upon the baked goods.

Sherlock isn't in the kitchen, but one of the wait staff sees him looking and tips his head in the direction of the garden door. Sure enough, Sherlock's tall shape is a darker shadow against the night, only his pale face is clear in the cold foggy air. It's all a bit surreal, Sherlock, the thick fog and the way that the lantern light from beside the kitchen door mixes with the water droplets and seems to move like waves as the fog thickens and thins in the sluggish evening air.

"Hey!" John calls softly, approaching his friend from behind. Sherlock turns his head to show his profile, not enough to actually see John, but enough to show that he's aware of him. He looks back out into the night.

"Had enough already?" Sherlock asks and it's an odd tone to his voice that makes John approach more carefully.

"Could ask you the same thing," John offers. He’s so prickly today; John wishes he knew why.

Sherlock grunts. "I've had to put up with them all for a lot longer than you have."

"They seem alright. Quite the group though. Did any of them have what you might consider to be a normal job? Or a normal name for that matter."

Sherlock snuffs a quick laugh at that one and John feels slightly easier. 

"Grandfather was a professor of Medieval Literature before the Second World War. I think it was a hobby of his to see how obscure he could make his children's names. I assume when it was their turn to have families of their own, they simply carried on the tradition."

The conversation tails off and yet John feels compelled to speak. If he doesn't mention Sherlock's performance now, he'll lose his nerve all together.

"That was quite wonderful, what you and Mycroft played earlier."

Sherlock shrugs. "It was hardly up to the measure of the other performers this evening, but it amused Father, so I suppose it was a success by those standards."

"It was fantastic, Sherlock. Beautiful. The others were very good, but they could have been anybody. Yours meant something. I was watching your dad and he was so happy."

Sherlock grunts and allows the praise. He doesn't comment as John comes level with him and they stand quietly watching the moon try to glow through the worsening fog. It's the kind of cold that almost hurts your nose and cheeks, pinching exposed skin with icy fingers. It feels surprisingly good after standing in a warm, stuffy room with so many strangers. The muffled noise of the partygoers sounds happy and animated, but John has no desire to rejoin them while Sherlock is out here. 

John wonders what the other man is thinking - he doesn't seem unhappy exactly but he doesn't appear to be pleased either. He's so hard to fathom and that's exactly why John has never made a play to see how it was received. He doesn't doubt his place in Sherlock's life - he knows he is in a very privileged position and that he probably knows Sherlock better than anyone else. It's mutual. But each time he has decided that there is enough evidence that he should try an offer of more than friendship, something has happened to make him think that Sherlock has no need or desire for a romantic relationship. It's been a struggle but John is doing his best to be at peace with it. He hasn't dated in months and currently has no plans to do so. His life with Sherlock is everything he wants with the exception of a physical element. John believes he can live without that if it means he gets to stay. It doesn't stop him from looking though. Or dreaming. Sherlock’s physicality, however out of reach it might be, is not something that can be ignored, John has found.

There is the crunch of gravel as cars begin to arrive to take dinner guests away and voices, oddly muffled by the frigid, foggy air, calling best wishes and goodnights. 

"I'm going to go on in and see if there's anything I can do to help."

"The caterers should have dealt with all that," Sherlock replies absently.

"Good - an even better reason to offer my help," John jokes. "I'll see you upstairs in a bit?"

Sherlock turns his head then, and looks at him for the first time since he came out. He watches John intently for a moment, then nods.

"And don't come up smelling of cigarettes. I always know, you know."

"No you don't," Sherlock smiles wryly, and John reluctantly takes his leave.

**11.17 p.m.**

Sherlock waits until John has had time to retire before he returns to the house. The lights are still spilling gold from the windows like a ship's portholes on an ocean of white. The fog has dampened all noise and scents, and the cold is leaching through the soles of his shoes. Even the Belstaff isn't totally impervious to the creeping fingers of the chill - his suit was designed for evening attire, not winter temperatures. 

Mummy and Father are sharing a few last words with the family members who are staying the night. Robert and Odilia are chatting to Father, while Mummy talks to one of the uncles. Crispian goes to the kitchen for a glass of water, clearly on his way up to bed and Sherlock follows him, strangely compelled to show him... what, exactly? He has no claim on John Watson other than that of friendship and a sharer of the rent. But for some reason Crispian and his success and his talent and his wit and easy, personable demeanour has come to embody all the reasons why John would not be interested in embarking on a relationship with a man with none of those particular skill sets. 

"Sherlock, I thought you'd turned in hours ago." Crispian says neutrally.

"No, I just felt the need for some fresh air," Sherlock admits. He doesn't add that there were too many idiot relatives chatting up his best friend, but he hopes it's thoroughly implied.

Crispian tips his head to one side. "Plenty of that around here. John says..."

"He's not gay. He's said so several times," Sherlock blurts and rebukes himself immediately. Could he have shown his hand any more obviously? And it's not a lie - early in their friendship John claimed several times in Sherlock's hearing that he was not gay when people made stupid assumptions about the two of them. He never challenged Sherlock to deny it, but his own denials were strenuous enough that people accepted it without question. He hasn't said it in some time now, even when the idiots see them together and make their erroneous judgements. It's one of the things that has made Sherlock wonder if perhaps there might be a place for him in John's life that is more than he already is.

Crispian looks as surprised as Sherlock feels at his outburst. "O... kay," he says cautiously. "I'm not completely sure where that came from but I can assure you, I haven't propositioned him. "

"But you're interested," Sherlock spits back immediately.

"He's an engaging man." Crispian concedes, turns to face him and crosses his arms. He watches him levelly, clearly losing patience with Sherlock's attitude. "And he's good company."

"Oh please, you were all over him."

"Look, I don't know what you're trying to imply, but unless I'm much mistaken, he's a grown man and he can make his own decisions. I didn't coerce him into talking to me this evening, and as to whether he's interested or not, or even knows that I'm gay, I don't see that it's any of your business. Or perhaps..." Crispian's fine features sharpen and his eyes light with understanding. "Oh! Maybe I do know what your problem is after all. _Oh_ , ... Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock is not a naturally violent man. He doesn't have any qualms with the use of physical force, but only when absolutely necessary or when he has been goaded beyond enduring. Crispian is coming dangerously close to the latter discussing him and John like this, with a sickening mix of pity and amusement in his voice.

"You've lived together for how long now? A year and a half? Don't you think you should have told him? Don't you think that if there was something there, it would have shown itself by now? That it would have happened already if it was going to?"

Sherlock says nothing; it's his father's birthday. Breaking his cousin's nose, no matter how warranted, would probably come under the category John calls 'not good.' But he needs to put some space between himself and temptation - he can almost feel the satisfying crunch and warm gush on the skin of his knuckles. He turns on his heel and makes for the door. Crispian's voice follows him all the way across the kitchen.

"And as to whether _he_ is gay or not, he wouldn't be the first man who re-evaluated his choices after a chance meeting. And until he has accepted an offer elsewhere, he is fair game, Sherlock. You should consider that. Sleep well, cousin!"

**11.32 p.m** . 

John is still awake when Sherlock finally comes up to bed. He's very quiet and doesn't give more than a corner of a smile when John greets him. Deeply engrossed in Swallows and Amazons, John hasn't bothered to get into bed yet. It's quite snug in their room and he's comfortable lying on top of the covers in his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt. 

The house is falling quiet now, just the click of doors closing and the occasional swish of plumbing. It's peaceful but John imagines that the hush is watching, almost expectantly. It reminds him of Christmas Eve already - not the ones of late with telly and take away, or snatching a break between patients in an airless field hospital and only vaguely remembering the date, but like it did when he was a child. It's the thrill of a Christmas when there was still a bit of magic to believe in, when, even though he knew it was rubbish, he would write a letter and send it to Lapland anyway - just in case. Like then, tonight feels like something is going to happen or is _already_ happening, and John cannot squash the sensation. It lodges under his ribs and flutters in his stomach.

Sherlock takes himself off to the bathroom and John marks his place in the book with the till receipt from the birthday whiskey and puts it aside. He knows that Sherlock always sleeps with his window open, so he kneels up to open theirs then shuffles himself under the covers and waits. It doesn't take long for Sherlock to reappear, also in pyjama bottoms and t-shirt, his long, pale feet bare on the wooden floor. 

John loves to see Sherlock out of the suits he wears every day - not that he isn't pretty easy on the eye dressed in his usual tailored style. Or anything he happens to have on, really. But there's something about this Sherlock that John feels especially warm towards. It's another part of the Sherlock only he sees; everyone gets the tall, slim, arrogant-looking man in the dark tailoring; sharp lines, sharp mind, sharp tongue. But this Sherlock with his washed-thin t-shirt and his fluffy, untamed hair is only for John. His body seems to soften along with his expression when he's like this and it makes John ache with it sometimes - just how much he cares for the man and how easy it would be to reach out a hand and run a thumb along his jaw, his cheekbone, his wrist, take his hand and pull him in.

"Thank you," Sherlock mutters softly and John blinks, caught out in his imaginings. 

"The window," Sherlock gestures when John stares at him blankly for too long. 

"Oh, yeah, of course," John gruffs, and has to clear his throat. 

Sherlock slides into his bed opposite and John has to look away, certain that he has longing all over his face. Being here, attending the party, hearing Sherlock play for his father - it seems to have cracked the shell that John tries to maintain around himself, behind which he keeps his feelings for Sherlock firmly locked away until, alone in his room at night, he can let them have free rein. And they do. 

This is not his room. 

This is Sherlock's room. 

In Sherlock's parents' home.

It's imperative that John remember that. 

Sherlock reaches across to turn out the lamp on his bedside table. 

"Goodnight John, " he rumbles softly.

His voice, so close and low, makes something in John's belly flip over and a warmth spread where it has no right spreading.

John listens as Sherlock thumps his pillows into place and lays down. The little noises of his body settling into the mattress, the scritch as he tackles an itch on his jaw, the sweep of the material of his pyjamas against the sheets are a comfort and torment. Despite the cold air coming in through the cracked open window, familiar scents come to John's attention; shampoo, toothpaste and something that stokes that warmth in his belly into a brighter, hotter flame, something that is unmistakably Sherlock. It seems to be hard wired into John's subconscious - it used to mean _home_ and _cases_ and _Baker Street_ , but lately it has come to mean _want_ and _need_ and _not enough_. 

John rolls onto his front and tries not to groan as his cock takes an interest and swells fruitlessly against the mattress.

It's going to be a long night.

**11.48 p.m.**

John seems restless tonight. Sherlock has spent nights in the same room with him before when they have been on cases - and even in the same bed on one or two occasions - so he knows that John is not normally so unsettled. He's usually asleep as his head hits the pillow, presumably a hangover from his army days when he had to rest when he was able to get a break. Sherlock wants to ask him what it is that has him so keyed up, but fears that he won't much care for the answer. 

Crispian's words have Sherlock as rattled as John seems to be and they echo in the corridors of Sherlock's mind palace, keeping him from the refuge he usually finds within the mental walls. His body does not betray him with its fidgeting but his brain is churning away anyway, making projections, analysing John's behaviours this evening, deconstructing his conversations to find alternate meanings - others might call it 'worrying' but Sherlock likes to think he has more control over his emotional responses than that. Or he used to. 

The heating has gone off and with the window open, the room has cooled fast. Under the thick blankets, it is warm and snug, the weight of them grounding and comforting. The curtains are not drawn and the fitful light of the moon brightens and fades with the shifting fog. It's close to silent outside, all noise trapped by the dead air and this adds to the strange feel of tonight. Sherlock abandons his mind palace and turns his head toward John. The light is insufficient to see him clearly, but he can make out the fact that his eyes are closed and his lips are slightly parted. 

A Tawny owl calls quite close by and is answered at a distance. John's eyes open and he smiles a little as he notices that Sherlock is awake too. The clock on the village church chimes midnight and it sounds like it's miles away rather than at the end of the lane. 

"Are you too cold?" Sherlock whispers - he doesn't know why. His room isn't near any of the other bedrooms - they could make quite a noise if the fancy took them and no one would be any the wiser. A sudden image of what they might do to produce such a ruckus flashes across Sherlock's mind which is spectacularly unhelpful with the star of those imaginings watching him from only a few feet away. 

"No, I'm fine. You?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock confirms and wonders what John would have suggested had he been quick enough to claim to be cold. Probably not any of the things that Sherlock is thinking of.

"Can't sleep?" John asks.

"Was about to ask you the same thing."

"Just unwinding," John offers. "It was a good day. Your dad seemed to enjoy his party. Thanks for the invitation."

"It's a bit of a tradition now. He says it makes up for having a birthday so close to Christmas."

"It was nice - I enjoyed meeting your family."

Sherlock breathes through the stab that provokes. As it turns out, his family had enjoyed meeting John too, more than Sherlock might have liked. He hums in a way that John can interpret as he wishes. 

"Well, goodnight," John offers, a slight hitch to his voice.

"Sleep well," Sherlock replies and watches while John rolls over to face the opposite wall, his back to him.

Sherlock prepares to have to lie completely still all night, sure that sleep is not going to come for him this night.


	2. Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's plans are going awry, but sometimes the best plans do.

**7.12 a.m.**

The next thing Sherlock knows is that it is close to dawn, and he has slept well and deeply. He's surprised, and checks his watch on the bedside table. Sure enough, the sun is only the merest hint in the sky, still below the horizon but steadily pushing away at the darkness. 

As a child he had loved that his room faced south-east - at this time of year he was the first to see the sun in the morning and also the first to see the stars as the sky darkened enough for them to be visible. He rolls onto his side and enjoys the shading of the sky through the window as it brightens through dark blue to purple and green to peach. The blackbirds strike up first, their high sweet whistles soon joined by the chatter of others hardy enough to face a British winter. For a moment he wonders whether to wake John to share the sunrise, but it's too sentimental. His connection to John is making him fanciful which is not something to be desired, particularly when the object of his nascent affection is ignorant of said connection. And possibly considering a connection to another. 

When Mycroft has advised abstention from sentiment, Sherlock wonders whether this is what he was warning against. The torment of being attracted to John, living in close quarters with him and sharing the work with him is distracting and tiresomely inconstant. As many times as he has had high hopes of his sentiments being returned, he has tasted the bitterness of certainty that they will remain forever unrequited. It is not a comfortable feeling for someone like him who has trained himself over many years to ignore such base sensations as arousal and attraction.

It’s particularly hard to ignore this morning. He can hear John breathing, he can smell the last vestiges of John’s deodorant and shampoo from yesterday mixed with the not unpleasant stale, sleepy warmth of him. If his plans hadn’t been disrupted, he would have had all this and more within hand’s reach, their bodies heating the blankets together - a shared safe space that Sherlock had been hoping to capitalise on.

He finds his body is reacting to the convoluted images in his sleep-fuzzy mind. Thoughts of John, warm and pliant on waking, are making him harden in his pyjamas, the deep, sweet ache of it already a familiar sensation, but heightened now with John right here beside him.

Briefly he glances across to John and finds him awake too, his eyes sleepy but bright. The shock of his regard and fear of discovery ought to take care of any physical reactions, yet they persist. They share a quick smile and turn their gazes back to the shift and play of colours in the morning sky. Sherlock is grateful for the quiet moment, not quite composed enough to face the day yet.

**7.38 a.m**

John sleeps better than he thought he would and wakes with a feeling of calm contentment. He often has morning wood first thing, so isn’t concerned when he’s already aroused as he drifts towards consciousness, but as soon as he remembers where he is it’s an altogether more delicate matter. He can’t just take care of it this morning as he can at home, either in the shower or, if all is quiet downstairs and he feels he has the time, in a leisurely and indulgent manner on his bed. A quick glance across to Sherlock’s bed confirms that his roomie is already awake and they smile awkwardly at each other. He feels refreshed and alert after a deep, dreamless night, but unavoidably attuned to the proximity of Sherlock and it’s going to take John some time to will the damn hard-on away.

Thankfully neither of them is in a hurry to get up and they silently watch as the sun sets the eastern sky alight. The fog of last night is gone without a trace although it looks to still be cold. A huge yawn and a need to visit the facilities finally forces John out of bed, keeping as much of his bottom half out of Sherlock’s sight as possible. He showers while he is in there, ignoring the urge to take care of his still half-hard state knowing that only an inch of English Oak stands between him and his ridiculously observant friend. Somehow Sherlock always knows when John has taken care of business, no matter how quiet and quick he is about it. The berk never says anything, but his eyes always flick towards John as he leaves the bathroom at Baker Street - John doesn’t know how he knows, he just knows that he does.

He hasn't brought fresh clothes into the bathroom and has to return to their room in his towel. Sherlock looks away tactfully as John enters the room, but as John bends and rummages for fresh underwear in his bag, he can feel the weight of his friend's gaze on him. A glance in the mirror on the opposite wall confirms his hunch and their eyes meet briefly in the spill of light from the bathroom. It's awkward as John realises that just the thought of Sherlock's eyes on his bare back is causing his issue to become ever more urgent, so he grabs the closest thing and scuttles back into the bathroom to explain to his body that he understands the reaction, but it's embarrassing him. Later, he promises, when he is alone, he will revisit this moment and do it justice. 

He can hear Sherlock moving around in their room, the click and zip of his overnight bag, him clearing his throat, the slight rustling as he sorts through his clothes. John’s body is, of course, completely ignoring him and reacting to Sherlock, half clad and sleep-tousled, on the other side of the door. He’s probably still warm from the sheets and if John were to kiss him, now, before he was fully awake, he’d get that little line between his eyebrows that always shows up when he’s confused or surprised by something. He might even kiss back, not even realising how long John has wanted to taste those full lips.

John looks down at himself and realises that he cannot possibly go out there and hide the insistence of his erection. Neither can he stay in here and hope it will subside; Sherlock is waiting for his turn in the bathroom. This leaves him one option and the earnest hope that, just once, Sherlock will be too distracted to observe.

John braces his back against the bathroom door, takes himself in hand and his reluctance is instantly replaced by a rush of relief. His own touch rarely feels as welcome as it does this morning. He is insanely hard already, so he moves his tight grip up to where he’s most sensitive and already leaking precome, knowing that a little dedicated friction here, at the crown, will bring him off in under a minute. He strokes quickly, tries to breathe through his nose to avoid making any involuntary sounds. His balls are already pulling up and he’s just slick enough that the drag of his fist is the right side of too rough.

He pushes onto his toes, his head dropping back softly against the door. It’s quiet out in the bedroom. Perhaps Sherlock can hear his laboured breaths and is standing right by the door, deducing what John is doing, listening to him…

John convulses and comes, curling down over himself as he pulses into his own fist. He tries not to gasp or groan but isn’t sure exactly how successful he is in that with the ringing, whistle in his ears that only happens when he comes really hard. He pauses for a moment and breathes, waiting for the shudders and aftershocks to subside and the post-orgasmic lassitude to flood him. Straightening up, he steps unsteadily to the sink, washing away all the evidence he can find and not quite able to look himself in the eye in the bathroom mirror.

Finally clothed, a little flushed still and smelling strongly of the deodorant he sprayed on himself and into the air to mask the scent of his activity, John is ready for the day and he quits the bathroom. Sherlock slips in behind him immediately, as if he really had been waiting right there, and closes the door a little more forcefully than necessary. John thought he'd been quite quick despite everything, and Sherlock hadn't said anything about being desperate, so he shrugs and adds it to today's tally of Sherlock's quirks. He has to start a new one each day as any longer term list quickly becomes unwieldy. 

The sun is finally above the horizon, and John can see that the sky is a fragile blue above the trees that sway in the wind. There's a real chill in the air too, and John closes and latches the window, picks up his book and sits on his bed to wait for Sherlock to be ready. 

Fifteen minutes later (which is relatively fast for Sherlock), he emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and scent. John tries to keep his eyes on his book but does a double take the second he notices the jeans. If he thought Sherlock in a suit was a force for good in the world, then Sherlock in jeans is proof that there is a Father Christmas and that John Watson has been a very good boy this year. Inky blue and slim, they hug his thighs and his hips as lovingly as his tailored suits do. Teamed with this he has a pair of thick wool socks and a fine knit jumper in a plum colour and by the time John's eyes have finished making their way slowly from toes to eyes, Sherlock's cheeks are tinged pink. 

"What?" he challenges, his eyebrows lowering.

"Nurgh," John croaks and coughs. "Nothing, I...I just haven't seen you in jeans before." He must look ridiculous and so plainly turned on ( _again_ ) that Sherlock cannot possibly miss it. Yet somehow, he seems to.

"Of course you have," he says defensively. "When I need to move within the homeless network, I wear jeans. You've seen me do so a number of times."

"Yeah, but these ones actually fit you and aren’t filthy," John points out and decides he needs to change the subject now. 

Right now. 

Sooner if possible. 

"Soooooo, what do we have on today? That means you need to wear jeans?" John asks, and really he should just stop talking because he's talking about the jeans that he wasn't going to mention again. And now he can't think of another conversation topic that isn't denim related.

"I suspect that Mummy will have a list of jobs for us - she usually does. I can never fathom why as she presumably manages admirably without my help for the overwhelming remainder of the year."

And this is better. Jobs sound good. Something to take his mind off... the thing he's not thinking about. 

"Let's go and find out what they are then," John agrees, standing.

"Breakfast first," Sherlock scowls. "With the family I suspect."

"Let's be quick and maybe we can be gone before anyone else is up."

Sherlock gives him a strange look, and John wonders if his bathroom interlude has been rumbled, but the shy smile that follows distracts him from dwelling too deeply on that.

**8.06 a.m.**

John's excellent plan is foiled by his horrifically early rising relatives.

Mummy, Father, Mycroft, Uncle Oswin and Crispian are already at the kitchen table with cups of coffee and tea. Odelia and Robert complete the house party, walking in behind them. Predictably they are all smiles and Sherlock's eyes can't help but drift to the direct look on Crispian's face as his gaze bounces from him to John and back again.

"Come and sit," Mummy insists, beaming, and John does without question, making it too difficult for Sherlock to drag him away before food is placed in front of them both. John sets to, while Sherlock picks at his own plate. Tea is drunk, the party is discussed and it's all horrifically dull. The only highlight is that Crispian is much less chatty this morning.

"Now, boys, if you wouldn't mind there are a few little jobs that need doing," Mummy says to them as she clears plates.

"Oh darling, really?" Father asks, giving his wife a fond smile.

"No, that's fine," John insists. "We'd love to help out."

Sherlock just makes a withering face at his flatmate who ignores his wishes anyway.

"What can we do?"

"Well, you may have noticed that the house isn't decorated for Christmas yet. It's a bit of a tradition in the family to save it for Christmas Eve and after Sigger's birthday,” Mummy explains to John whose eyes, miraculously, do not glaze over. “Could you take the wheelbarrow down to the woods and find us some evergreen? There are several holly trees down there and the ivy is positively rampant. If you could cut a barrowful then we can spruce this place up a bit for Christmas," Mummy tells them.

John even smiles at her terrible joke. Sherlock sighs loudly and gets a glare from both of them. 

"And then perhaps this afternoon you boys could bring in the tree and put some decorations on it?"

"We'd love to," John accepts. "Anybody else up for a bit of fresh air and honest work? Crispian?”

Sherlock's head whips up so fast he feels something pop in his neck.

"What? No. I mean... he's probably busy. And he's not really dressed for gardening." The one saving grace about doing Mummy's chores is that it will get him and John out of the house and alone for a while without random relatives breathing down their necks. It was another part of his already massively compromised plan, had the bed sharing not gone as planned. Adding Crispian into the mix will ruin the whole outing. Again. 

"Actually, I have some warm clothes with me," Crispian replies; he smiles warmly at John, and then smugly at Sherlock. "A morning in the fresh air sounds like a wonderful idea."

"Great. We'll go and get the wheelbarrow and meet you round the back in ten minutes?" John suggests.

They grab coats from the hooks by the front door, waxed jackets that are warm and thorn-proof, pull on some stout footwear and head out to retrieve the wheelbarrow and some ancient gardening tools from the shed. Returning to the house, Sherlock can see that Crispian has still not reappeared.

"Let's make a start," Sherlock says. "Crispian can catch us up."

"Just give him a minute. Since when are you so keen to do chores?" John laughs. He seems happy and relaxed and Sherlock doesn't know if that's the Christmas spirit making him so cheerful or something else; possibly the inordinate amount of time he took in the bathroom that morning which had inevitably lead to Sherlock having to forgo washing his hair in favour of...other things that needed to be taken care of. Sadly, before he can come to a conclusion, Crispian comes out in a sweater, jeans and boots with a knitted hat covering his curls. 

Sherlock doesn't even acknowledge his presence, merely turns on his heel and starts marching down the drive towards the woods, leaving John and Crispian to follow along with the wheelbarrow. 

**8.59 a.m.**

Sherlock leads them down the lane, past the church and over a small bridge before turning into the woods through a tiny white gate. The morning light is making the haws and rosehips glow like garnets and rubies in the hedgerows. There are blue-black sloes too, tucked away inside branches of long thorns. John is reminded of long ago holidays with his grandparents who lived out in the Styx. He hasn’t thought of them in some time and he finds himself smiling at the memories.

It's a bit more sheltered under the trees even though most of them are bare and John is glad of the windproof jacket now that the breeze has picked up and is piling up clouds.

Sherlock stops and looks around.

"There's a stand of holly down that path. Crispian, why don't you take the wheelbarrow and collect some of that."

Crispian looks a little surprised, but Sherlock hands him gloves and secateurs, then takes John by the arm and steers him off in the opposite direction. He leads them deeper through the tree trunks towards an overgrown area where trees have clearly fallen some time ago. Their tumbled outlines are covered in green, glossy ivy. It even has a dark flower of sorts, and he and Sherlock set to, cutting and untangling long tendrils of the stuff and heaping it by the path on a carpet of dead leaves. 

The peace of the place is welcome and the time spent in the open air weaves its usual magic for John, dissolving stress and grounding him. With all the bending and reaching, they are both working up a bit of a sweat despite the cold. John has stopped cutting now if he’s honest. He's just enjoying the sights and sounds of the woods. The rising wind is making the branches dance and the trunks creak. Pretending to scope out the surrounding woods, he lets his gaze rest lightly on his friend whose cheeks and nose are a delicate pink in a way that only happens after chases on foot in the city. It’s a good look on him. Sherlock moves smoothly, clearly a veteran of Christmas decorating trips past. John would like to be able to say that he hasn't noticed, but the jeans are kind of scene stealing. They just accentuate the length of the legs, the lean muscles of the thighs and the...

"Did you find any mistletoe yet?"

Sherlock's voice isn't raised, but it makes John jump all the same. He's not even facing John; did he know that he was watching him?

"Er... no. Where should I be looking?"

"Up," Sherlock says and straightens, turning to John and pointing overhead.

John follows Sherlock's finger and sure enough, in the trees nearby there are large globes of living leaves. They look a bit like dull, green baubles hung in the dormant branches. 

"I should have brought my gun," John mutters, and wonders how high off the ground the plants actually are. 

"There used to be some younger trees that weren't quite so..." Sherlock turns on the spot. "Ah, there! Between us we should be able to get up high enough to reach that one with the loppers."

John worries that he knows how this is going to go, but he follows Sherlock anyway to the bottom of the target tree. The madman brandishes his shears a few times, then looks at John expectantly.

"I'm not sure this is such a good idea," John begins.

"Nonsense. If you just give me a bunk up, I'll be able to climb onto the bottom branch and reach it easily."

Deciding it's not worth his breath to argue - Sherlock will inevitably get his way as he always does - John braces his back against the tree trunk and laces his fingers together, crouching slightly so Sherlock can fit his muddy boot into John's mercifully gloved hands.

"Hup we go," Sherlock says, grasping John's shoulder with his free hand and, with a bit of a practice bounce, boosting himself up to grab the branch.

This turns out to be a mixed blessing. Firstly because John is taking all of Sherlock's weight through his arms and shoulders, and though the man looks willow thin sometimes, he's still six feet of muscle and bone, and he weighs a bloody ton in John's estimation. Secondly because now John has a face full of Sherlock's thighs, clad in the jeans no less, he can't truly appreciate the fact because the first thing means that his shoulders are screaming bloody murder. And now the idiot is wriggling, trying to get some of his body over the lowest hanging branch. So John finds himself beginning to appreciate after all, because Sherlock is warm, even through the denim and he can feel the shape of Sherlock's quadriceps against his cheek and ear, and he can smell that distinctive scent that is purely Sherlock, pressed against his nose. He needs to concentrate on supporting Sherlock and on them not getting themselves some broken bones - it's not easy though. 

Finally Sherlock finds some purchase and gets his belly over the branch, his legs dangling in the air quite comically. The relief of having his weight removed feels marvellous, and John straightens and turns to watch. Sherlock looks none too stable so John instinctively steps in and puts up his hands to Sherlock's bum to anchor him. It takes a second for John to realise what he's done and by then it's too late to do or say anything except to pretend that's exactly what he meant to do and it isn't immensely awkward but, and at the same time, completely wonderful.

There's a beat of silence before Sherlock speaks.

"Right, lend me your shoulder." His voice is strained, presumably from being bent over a branch.

"You know, they invented ladders thousands of years ago. There's probably a reason for that," John sighs almost convincingly, but complies, guiding Sherlock's waving boot to his shoulder and taking his weight again as he stretches up, and with a sickening ratchetted snip he cuts a chunk out of the mistletoe. 

The loppers land with a dull thud behind them and Sherlock takes his weight back onto the branch. John steps back to give him room to climb down, but it's still rather high and Sherlock can't find any purchase with his feet.

"Ermmmm..." His legs bicycling madly, Sherlock is beginning to lose his grip on the branch and is gradually slipping.

John swallows, prays for some self control and steps closer to the tree again to wrap his arms around Sherlock's thighs, almost getting a posh walking boot in the teeth for his trouble. 

"Hold still, you daft bugger, " John growls and finally Sherlock catches on, sliding ungracefully but safely down John's body. 

And really, how can this be fair? He's had more physical contact with Sherlock in the past ten minutes than he has had since the case with the magician who trapped them in the box he used to do the sawing the lady in half trick. Both of them. At the same time. Just don’t ask. So here he is, standing stoically while Sherlock, well - he slithers, there's no other word for it - while Sherlock wraps his arms around him and slithers down John's body; thighs, groin, hips, belly and finally chest as his feet hit the ground. At least John gets a feel of that soft jumper he’d resisted earlier as it brushes down his cheek.

They stand much too close together, neither of them stepping back. John is still holding on to Sherlock, to stop him from stumbling, and Sherlock is hanging on as if his feet are still not quite on the ground. Both breathing hard, Sherlock's head is tipped down to look at John whose head is tipped up to meet his gaze, all of which leaves their mouths only centimetres apart. So close that Sherlock would only need to sway and their lips would touch.

**10.43 a.m.**

Sherlock can scarcely believe it, but it appears that despite the initial setbacks, his plan has begun to work, to wit he has a pink-cheeked, panting John Watson in his arms, so close, in fact, that he can feel the thump of his heart against his solar plexus. Thinking that this is about as much as he could have hoped for by this point, Sherlock is proved wrong when John's eyes stray from his own and down to settle on his mouth. In a very promising unconscious gesture, John's tongue slips out to wet his own lips and Sherlock's brain is filled with what could be an angel choir singing of joy - or more likely anoxia from hyperventilating. 

"Ah, here you are!" Crispian's voice is full of false surprise and bonhomie and about as welcome as a particularly unpleasant dose of norovirus. The horrible little sneak has been spying on them and has deliberately chosen this perfect moment to announce his presence, Sherlock is convinced of it.

With a deep breath, John steps away from Sherlock, his hand lingering on his back until the last possible moment which reduces the sting of it somewhat.

"Here we are," John agrees and although he casts an unreadable gaze at Sherlock, he turns a genuine, if strained, smile towards Sherlock's cousin. 

"I thought you were observing the old traditions," Crispian smirks, crossing his arms over his chest as if they were settling in for a lovely chat. 

"Sorry, what?" John asks.

Crispian tips his head, gesturing to the tree with his (weak) chin. 

Both he and John look up to see the bunch of mistletoe they had so courageously fought for balanced on the lowest bough of the tree, right above their heads. It's the work of a moment to bend down, pick up the loppers and hook it out of the tree and into John's waiting hands. 

"Superstitious nonsense," Sherlock gruffs.

"And the beginning of many passionate and long lasting love affairs," Crispian corrects him. "You know, festive high spirits, too much fizz, meeting someone you would never normally have the courage to approach under the mistletoe and the rest is history in the making."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the obnoxious smirk that his cousin wears for his benefit. The man is a complete idiot and his subtle implication that this was Sherlock's plan to woo John is both insulting and largely correct. 

“You’ve been watching too many dreadful romantic comedies,” Sherlock sniffs.

John clears his throat and he’s wearing the hesitant smile that means he knows that something is going on but hasn't actually caught the message yet. 

"Let's get this lot back to the house and get on with the next job on the list, or it will be dark again before we are done." Sherlock suggests and they load the barrow with their morning's efforts mainly in silence.

Mummy wastes no time in giving them their next chore. With green tape and garden wire, they are set the task of using the evergreen branches to decorate the sitting room, the music room, the dining room and the entrance hall. A box of white church candles and another of ribbon completes their tool kit and after a couple of unsatisfactory efforts, they have got into their stride and are knocking out window ledges, mantels and table decorations with speed and growing confidence. It might not be what Mummy would have made, but it looks passable.

Sherlock watches John as he works, keeping it subtle. Once or twice he catches John doing the same thing, when they both smile quickly and look away. It's as if he is hyper aware of John, conscious of his breathing, his movements and his proximity all the time. Sadly he is also aware that his devious cousin is here too. His is the opposite to the sensation of John's familiar, comforting presence in that his laugh is akin to fingernails on a chalkboard and his mere presence an oily sheen on everything. John, in his charmingly oblivious manner, is chatting with them both and completely missing the scathing looks that Crispian throws at Sherlock whenever he raises a laugh from John. 

By just after midday, Sherlock is thoroughly bored of decorating. And of Crispian and his insipid attempts to converse with John.

"I think we are pretty much done, aren't we?" John asks, inspecting his fingers for holly pricks. 

"I agree," Crispian says, in far too jolly a tone. "How about we go to the pub in the village for lunch?"

"That sounds like an excellent idea. We deserve a pint after all the creativity. "

His cousin beams like an imbecile, as if he has won a prize of some sort.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" John asks.

The beauty of watching Crispian's face fall is indescribable. Did the man honestly think that John would trot off to the pub without inviting Sherlock along too? "Oh, I'd rather thought..."

"You up for that? Do you think your mum can spare us for an hour?" John speaks over the top of Crispian's half -formed protests, his eyes intent on Sherlock missing the disappointment on his cousin's face.

"Of course, John. Particularly if we don't tell her we are going."

There's a rather telling lull in Crispain's endless prattling as they pull on their coats and boots in the hall and step out into the winter's afternoon. The clouds have completely chased away any blue in the sky now, a strange yellow tinge to them that Sherlock recognises from childhood winters. The cold air encourages them to walk faster on the way to the pub on the green, about half a mile away. It's a small place, mostly undiscovered by tourists and it's more akin to stepping into someone's sitting room than a hostelry, but it's out of the wind and there's a fire glowing in the grate. The savoury smell in the air makes John's stomach rumble audibly. 

They find a table easily and order the chicken stew which the waiter tells them is the source of the delicious smell. John chooses a pint of the local brewery's IPA while Sherlock and Crispian both stick with sparkling water. 

Conversation could not be said to be flowing although John appears unaware of the strange contest of sorts continuing between his cousin and himself. In fact John seems to be innocently deflecting all the rather loaded comments that Crispian is making and purposefully pulling Sherlock back into any conversations that he tries to steer away from Sherlock's input. If he didn't know better, Sherlock might think that John were doing it on purpose. 

The stew turns out to be very good and after their exertions of this morning, they all end up scraping their bowls clean, mopping the last of it with the fresh chunks of the bread it was served with. It doesn't take long for the warm room and full stomachs to bring a welcome kind of calm to their company. Even the covert bickering takes on an indulgent edge. 

With his usual predictability John has to go and find the Gent's after a while, leaving Sherlock with his cousin and a return to the uncomfortable quiet. 

"You should just tell him," Crispian says unexpectedly.

"What?" Sherlock demands. 

His cousin raises an eyebrow in unmistakable disbelief. But Sherlock is not so easily bullied, and meets his gaze without wavering.

"Oh, I don't know, perhaps that you watch him all the time when he's not looking? That you shorten your stride so he can walk beside you? That you actually bother to listen to him as you do no one else? Or maybe just that you are madly in love with him."

Sherlock sighs and scowls. "You don't know what you are talking about."

"Perhaps not, but I know adoration when I see it."

Sherlock curls a lip at the overblown sentimental language. "He's. Not. Gay." It's quite a major stumbling block in Sherlock's plans and has been for some time, even though he has surmised that John has, on occasion, had consentual homosexual experiences. He'd hoped for a different set of circumstances over Christmas to see if stood any chance of turning John's head in his own more masculine direction, and he has seen definite indications that John has at least noticed other aspects of him than his brain and his ability to ruin a tidy room in three minutes. But to theorise that these isolated indicators prove that John is attracted to Sherlock would be to stretch the evidence much too far.

"And when was the last time he told you that?"

Sherlock thinks. Crispian may have a point. They get a lot of people assuming that they are together for some reason, but it has been over seven months since John last jumped down the throat of anyone who alluded to their sexual preferences. 

The self satisfied smile on his cousin's face is hateful but John is already on his way back to their table, halting any chance of a scathing remark.

"Tell him," Crispian murmurs as John arrives at their table. 

"Tell who what?" he asks, looking between them.

Sherlock has never been so grateful to receive a text and suspects nothing as his phone chimes for an incoming message. He makes an imperious gesture to stall John and reads the message, feeling the blood cool in his veins as the implication becomes clear.

"Sherlock? Are you okay? What is it?" John asks tightly when Sherlock begins to blink uncontrollably at his mobile.

"Who taught Mummy to text?" Sherlock hisses, his eyes turning inevitably to Crispian.

"Sherlock, your mother is a highly regarded doctor of Applied Mathematics and Theoretical Physics, what makes you think that she needs any help in learning how to..."

"Because she has had a phone for four years and has not texted me once in that time."

Crispian has the grace to look slightly abashed. "Well, she saw me responding to a message and she asked. What was I supposed to say?"

"Nothing, Crispian. Not a thing. Which is more than I predict my brother will have to say to you on this matter."

"Oh god, Mycroft... I hadn't considered..."

"Clearly," Sherlock spits, venomously. If Mummy can text him a message, calling him home, complete with a Christmas tree emoji and a smiley face, then by this time tomorrow his brother’s inbox will be bursting with cat videos and who knows what else? His cousin seems to be hell bent on ruining his life, although his campaign to win John away from Sherlock's side appears to be less successful than he had first feared. 

They emerge into the bitter air, the wind biting at skin that had been pleasantly warm only seconds before. Sherlock didn't demur when Crispian offered to pay and he follows them out, still pocketing his wallet.

"Mummy has texted that she would like us to help by putting up the tree next," Sherlock says with a sickly smile at his turncoat cousin, before he strides off back towards his parents' home leaving a chastened Crispian to follow.

**2.20 p.m.**

The tree turns out to be huge and in need of some serious work before it can be safely wedged in the wooden barrel and brought into the sitting room. It takes two of them to carry it - no prizes for guessing who has a handy excuse not to participate. With Sherlock calling mocking instructions, John is quite glad when they reach the sitting room and finally get to drop the thing down in its spot near the fireplace. John straightens up and stretches hugely at which Sherlock stares quite openly, which is interesting and somewhat gratifying. When Crispian remains stooped over the barrel John assumes he has found something of interest , but a low groan forces him to make a quick adjustment in his thinking.

"Are you okay?" John asks, concerned. He places a gentle hand on Crispian's back and bends down to look him in the eye.

"No, not really," Crispian replies, quieter than he has been this weekend.

"Is this something you have had before?" 

"Yes, but not in a good while," Crispian says through gritted teeth. 

"Do you mind if I take a look?"

"Whatever you like, just get me to a place to lie down." The man is clearly in some distress. His jolly tone and ready smile have been replaced with tight features and short, panted sentences. 

John runs his hands over Crispian's spine, then out across his lower ribs. He can't feel the spasm in the muscles of his lumbar region but he can feel the strain where Crispian is holding as still as he can to avoid incurring more pain. 

John looks across to Sherlock who is scowling as if Crispian's injury is a personal affront.

"Can you ask your mum for a hot water bottle? Do you have anything prescribed for this?" This second phrase is for Crispian who has taken John's offered arm and is trying to straighten up. 

"Painkillers. In my bag in my room."

Do you think you can make it there?" John asks solicitously.

"Hopefully, with your help perhaps."

John can hear Sherlock's sighs, which means that Crispian can hear them too.

It takes them ten minutes just to get Crispian upstairs and the man is very clearly in distress although John can’t immediately identify the exact source of the problem in the movements he is able to make.

“A warm shower might help," John suggests when they reach his room. Sherlock looks around shamelessly cataloguing without even a pretense of politeness. 

Crispian shuffles into the bathroom and pushes the door until it is ajar. There are a few minutes silence before a resigned voice comes from within. "John, I'm sorry but I'm having a couple of issues."

Crispian needs the shower turning on. Then he needs help pulling his shirt off his arms. Then the socks off his feet. But when he claims that he can't shimmy his jeans and underwear down without John's help, Sherlock intervenes.

"John, why don't you see if Mummy has that hot water bottle ready and I'll help Crispian into the shower."

Sherlock trades places with John in the bathroom and his friend marches off downstairs.

With a put upon sigh, Sherlock steps closer to Crispian and prepares to face the unpleasant task of stripping his cousin naked and helping him into the shower. The only thing that Sherlock can think of that would be more displeasing right now, would be if he knew that John was doing it. Reaching out a hand for Crispian's waistband Sherlock is shocked when his cousin slaps the hand away with a growled, "Keep your hands to yourself, you idiot."

Crispian straightens up like a jack-in-the-box and grins broadly at the surprise on Sherlock's face, then leans in to switch on the shower and pull off his own jeans. 

"Alright, we only have a few moments so here's the deal. I will carry on with my backache and take to my bed so as to clear the field for you to go and tell John that you love him."

Sherlock snorts and rolls his eyes, reluctantly impressed by his cousin's acting skills. 

"You love him," Crispian repeats, as if Sherlock is deaf. "Alternately, I can be a very demanding patient and require that the good doctor returns to my side at frequent intervals for the rest of the afternoon, this evening and all through tomorrow. Who knows how many warm showers or examinations I might need? And I suspect I will require help when hobbling to and from the loo and..."

"You do not understand. This is not a simple thing to achieve. If it were I would have done it already,” Sherlock objects, surprised into honesty.

"It never is, but the effort will be worth the pain. Either way you will have an answer. John is too good a man to let a little thing like you being smitten by him get in the way of a friendship like yours, should he not return your sentiments, but I have a very good feeling that will not be the case. Now, John is on his way back up. Think fast. What's it to be?"

Crispian is in the shower only seconds before John's light knock comes on the bathroom door. 

John smiles quickly at Sherlock and calls to Crispian who slowly, carefully peeps out from behind the curtain and Sherlock marvels anew at the artificial lines of tension in the man's face.

"Do you want to tell me where your pills are? I can dig them out for you. I've brought you some juice and I've put the hot water bottle in your bed. I know it's Christmas Eve, but there's an A&E in Gloucester we can get you to..."

Crispian looks to be pondering his answer and his eyes stray to Sherlock and sharpen. Sherlock glares at him and then nods very slightly and watches as Crispian gently rebuffs all of John's solicitous advice other than bed rest.

They get his cousin, turning in an Oscar winning performance, into bed after he manages to struggle back into his pyjama bottoms on his own. John is reluctant to leave him under the circumstances; clearly Crispian has over-egged his role. Sherlock tries not to sound too impatient, and John is finally mollified with the knowledge that Crispian has his mobile beside his bed and can call them if he needs them.

"I'll come and check on you in half an hour or so," John assures the apparently pained man.

"I'll be asleep - the tablets always make me drowsy. I'll text you when I'm awake or if I need help. There's no need to bother yourself, John. This is something that has happened before when I've done something injudicious. A bit of rest and I'll be as right as rain."

"Well, if you're sure," John sounds less than pleased with the plan, but Sherlock manages to steer him out of the room and with one last dark look at his grinning cousin, he firmly shuts the door. 

There's a tree to trim and a blogger to woo.

**3.34 p.m.**

Mid-afternoon, and John finds himself with a glass of mulled cider, a large box of Christmas decorations and a consulting detective who is either doing long division in his head or is extremely uptight about something. His lip is getting a proper chewing and his quiet exasperated sighs are clear indications that Sherlock Holmes is not happy. 

"Everything alright?" John asks carefully but not carefully enough.

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?" Sherlock barks his eyes flashing at John's impertinence. 

"Oh, nothing. I mean... no reason. Just asking."

"Everything's fine."

"Good. Great. Glad to hear it," John says trying to keep the irritation and sarcasm out of his voice. He doesn't want to provoke the man further, especially when he is in a mood like this one. He's seen these before and they escalate quickly, often ending in Sherlock sulking and John needing a very long walk. 

"So did you always leave it so late to put up your tree? When I was a kid, if we didn't have the decorations up by the second weekend in December, Harry and I would moan until we did." As olive branches go, it's not much of one, but it's all he can think of on short notice and with a faceful of spruce needles.

"We always put it up on Christmas Eve. Mycroft and I were away at school until late December anyway. And, of course, as Mummy said, father likes to have his birthday celebrated properly, without it becoming a seasonal party. "

John nods, surprised to be getting the background information. Sherlock loves to talk about cases and forensics and any related scientific concept you care to mention, but he doesn't talk about himself when not in relation to one of the other topics. Feeling forgiven (although he still has no idea for what) John smiles.

"It's a bit of a crappy date for a birthday," he concedes.

"You should try having my birthdate. I was born on the 6th of January; twelfth night. It's the date..."

"... when all the decorations and lights come down. Yeah, my family were superstitious about that too. That must have been rough. In my house everyone was grumpy for a couple of days after the house got all dull again."

Sherlock just shrugs, but the accompanying quirked smile is enough to make John's happiness swell again.

They work quietly, decorating the Christmas tree in its place of honour beside the fireplace. The lights are already twined around the branches and now they are taking the fragile glass ornaments out of tissue wrappers and hanging them on the branches, doing their best to make it look even. John doesn't have high hopes on it being up to Mrs Holmes's standards, as Sherlock seems to be sorting them by colour and size, making it look like a science project rather than a festive centrepiece. John is just hanging them on the branches he can reach. Sherlock seems to recognise this and with a small apologetic glance at John, he takes the painted glass bauble out of John's hand and reaches above him to hang it on the highest part of the tree. 

"It's genetics, not skill," John snarks.

"Of course," Sherlock agrees insincerely, earning him a weary shake of John's head.

He bends to recover the next trinket for Sherlock to hang, as he has remembered that John is here now. Sherlock stoops too, peering into the box. John likes the look of a clear bauble with holly leaves painted on the surface and reaches for it at exactly the same time as Sherlock does. Their hands touch and they both freeze. 

Sherlock's hand is cool and smooth, and John imagines that he can feel the calluses on his fingertips against his own fingers. It's not even the length of a breath but it feels like an age that they stand there before Sherlock brings his face up to look at John. With a delightfully pink tinge to his cheeks and another quirk of a smile he withdraws his hand.

"After you," he mutters. 

John is struck by how uncertain Sherlock seems, how deferential. This is not something John has ever had cause to think before. A sudden crazy notion flickers across his mind for the second time that day, first on the mistletoe expedition and now here. It seems impossibly unlikely, but if it were anybody else behaving this way, John would fancy his chances and test the waters, so to speak.

John lifts the bauble from the box and tilts his head at Sherlock. He gives him the sweetest, most encouraging smile he can muster and holds it out for Sherlock to place. When his friend reaches for it, John makes certain that their hands touch again. He's deliberate about it this time and he watches for Sherlock's reaction cautiously. The man seems to freeze again, but perhaps made bold by John's overt behaviour, he withdraws his hand slowly, letting his little finger slide down the side of John's hand. This gesture should not flood John with the roaring optimism that it does, and as Sherlock keeps his eyes lowered when he turns to the tree, John cannot help the grin that bubbles up and refuses to be stifled. 

It might be his imagination, but he thinks that Sherlock’s hands are slightly unsteady as he hooks the bauble onto an undressed branch. He seems to take a long time to turn around, but when he does, Sherlock's face is set.

"John, I'm not..."

"Ah, John. I was just looking for Crispian." Mycroft looks between John and Sherlock and raises his eyebrows in something that looks surprised and pleased for a second before it's gone and his familiar supercilious expression reasserts itself. 

"Er, he's upstairs resting. He hurt his back lifting the Christmas tree." John finds it hard to hold Mycroft's gaze, as if he's guilty of something and Sherlock's brother knows it. Which, he supposes, is true to a fashion, if silently yearning after his brother is something he should feel guilty for. 

"Ah, what a shame," Mycroft says with no glimmer of sympathy or honesty. "Mummy was hoping he would be able to join us for carolling tonight."

Sherlock makes a disgusted noise, drawing Mycroft's cool regard. 

"You promised her, brother mine. Do not make me have to listen to her complaints or the next time they want to see something by Andrew Lloyd Webber, I shall insist that it's something you wanted especially to see yourself." It takes Mycroft's face a few seconds to recover from having to say the popular composer's name, twisted as it was by undisguised disdain. 

"But I have a guest here!" Sherlock insists.

"And he is very cordially invited to join us. It's an hour or two of singing Sherlock, not a death sentence."

Sherlock and Mycroft engage in one of their silent slanging matches, their expressions moving minutely but clearly enough for them to communicate their wishes with some force. 

"Urgh! Fine!" Sherlock groans theatrically. "But John is under no obligation to join us. He shouldn't have to walk the streets begging on Christmas Eve..."

"Raising money for a local donkey sanctuary, I believe," Mycroft corrects him cheerfully. Or as cheerfully as Mycroft ever gets.

"I don't mind," John insists, to Sherlock more than to Mycroft. It doesn't hurt that it will keep him in Mummy's good graces too. "I don't know all the words, but I can hum with the best of them."

"And I'm sure the donkeys will be grateful for that," Mycroft says sagely. "So, half past six?”

Sherlock just shrugs and turns back to the tree to finish the decorating. 

John is sure that Sherlock was about to say something when Mycroft blundered in and broke the spell. Something important. Perhaps it was related to the family traditions they were just discussing, but it didn't sound like it. Sherlock had been deliberating over what to say or how to say it, he'd been hesitant, and the fact that it had come right after the charged moment with their hands touching deliberately (and yes, John realises this makes his life sound like a Jane Austen plot), makes him think that it was something personal. 

He hopes - _God_ , how he hopes - that it wasn't a rebuff, no matter how gently delivered or kindly meant. 

**_John, I'm not,_ **well it doesn't give him a lot to go on.

**_I'm not..._** what? Into you? Into men? Into humans? I'm not happy with how the tree is looking? I'm not happy that I've been banned from the mince pies? I'm not comfortable with your attentions? I'm not happy to be sharing a room with you any longer? Or a flat?

Sherlock had sounded truly sincere - whatever it was he was going to say was important to him.

And John is thinking himself in circles. One moment he's certain that Sherlock was about to admit to his attraction to John and the next he's equally as convinced that he's ruined everything and that Sherlock was finding the words to tell him that their partnership was over. The uncertainty is awful and John recognises his state of mind when Sherlock reaches over and carefully redistributes the six baubles John has crammed onto the same branch in his distraction.

He'll ask. It's the only way he'll be able to sleep tonight, or for the foreseeable future actually. This point has taken them both so long to get to - himself especially with the mental gymnastics he'd had to perform to find himself capable of falling in love with a man. He's been attracted to men before, he's even acted on those feelings on occasion. But this thing with Sherlock is more; deep and wide and tall. It is something that hasn't happened overnight, but now it’s here, now he is so far in, it can't be anything else but love. At least on his part. Not knowing Sherlock's mind on this is driving him demented.

Now, of course, he cannot think of a single way to bring the conversation around to where it was going before Mycroft wrecked it. He can't pull the same trick with the baubles again. He can't just wade in with a blunt question. He used to be good at this - he used to know exactly what to say and when. It was his secret weapon, a bit of humour, a bit of a grin, a sympathetic ear, a compliment - he'd had a knack with getting women way out of his league to date him. But none of them were more than a distraction compared to Sherlock. None of those women truly mattered. They'd have their fun for a night or a week or a month and then go their own ways. This is completely different - it's a man, it's his best friend and flatmate, it's his partner and it's _Sherlock._ He cannot get this wrong. 

John breathes, still uncertain of what is going to come out when he opens his mouth to speak, and he squares his shoulders. 

Turning to take a gauge of Sherlock's mood, John finds himself alone, the sitting room door closing softly behind his departing friend.

He should have acted sooner. He should have put his hand on Sherlock's arm and looked him in the eye and spoken the still evasive words that would have been everything he'd meant and left nothing unsaid. Who knew when or if there would be another chance like that one?

The afternoon has turned to evening already. The room already washed in winter's early darkness, John closes up the box of decorations and thinks about missed opportunities and the nature of regret by the white sparkle of the fairy lights.

**5.51 p.m.**

Sherlock hopes to avoid talking to John until it is time to gather for their carolling appointment by the simple expedient of remaining in the kitchen, which in the Holmes household, truly is the heart of the home. Both his parents enjoy cooking and both are very good at it which all means that there is usually someone in the kitchen, baking, washing up, preparing the next meal or just sitting at the large scrubbed pine table, drinking tea or reading. It's Sherlock's favourite room in the house and he feels a measure of security here even though his nerves are jangling from earlier. 

He'd expected John to say something, to explain his less than usually cautious behaviour. Sherlock might be a master of observation - and he observed a lot in John's upturned face and curious glances - but interpreting those observations has eluded him too many times. He reacted to John's touch - that deliberate slide of fingers over the back of his hand - with a caress of his own. Hard to imagine that John would have missed that. But instead of speaking, as he expected John to, he looked confused and distracted, as if he'd been misunderstood and now was trying to find a way to explain to Sherlock how very unwelcome his attentions were. Perhaps he thought it was something to do with the budding friendship between Crispian and him, that Sherlock was testing him, fearful for their continued partnership.

John comes into the kitchen twenty minutes after Sherlock had staked a claim to the corner of the table closest to the range. His mother is busy sorting recipes and texting to her friends (and Sherlock will make Chrispian pay for that at some point) and Father is writing letters. He does have a study to do this in, but like Sherlock, clearly has a preference for this room. They both look up when John enters and Mummy insists on making tea.

John reports that Crispian is comfortable and resting now. His manner is more tentative than ever, his eyes cast down and his smile forced. He keeps sending hopeful looks in Sherlock's direction, but Sherlock determinedly ignores them. He hasn't been able to discern John's thoughts up to now, and trying to do so when he is already this turned about while in the company of his parents will not bring the breakthrough he's been seeking. He wonders how people do this - how people survive the uncertainty and the guessing of romantic exploits. It's exhausting. He felt certain that he'd made a connection and had opened a pathway towards them being clear with each other. John's hesitation had been unexpected and confusing and had cast down any confidence that Sherlock might have felt at the progress he thought he had been making. 

John takes a seat opposite and plays with the handle of his mug, turning it one way and then another. The soft scrape of it is putting Sherlock's teeth on edge. John is clearly wanting his attention, his lip licking and his unsubtle glances are plain. Surely he would not have chosen here and now to apologise or to turn him down - John has always seemed quite concerned about staying in his parents' good graces - so what does he want? What would Sherlock want if John had turned him down? A place to hide? A chance to explain himself . Yes, but also... yes! Sherlock would want to be reassured that John held no grudge against him for saying no to his advances. John's friendship is the most important one of his life, regardless of whether it was ever to be more. Sherlock would want to know that his place in John's life was assured despite their lack of a romantic connection. 

Sherlock relents, lifts his head and looks directly at his friend - the most important person in his life, one way or another. John stills in the act of looking away and then stares. He looks upset, not apologetic. He looks more defeated than concerned. Sherlock wants to walk over to him, take him by the shoulders and wait for the uncertainty to be over. He wants to beg John to tell him now, regardless of the answer - are we friends or something more? Do you want me or not? Do you love me or are you disgusted that I love you? 

It's intolerable.

Mummy seems oblivious to the mutual staring that, although intense, isn't making anything clearer to Sherlock at all. She begins to twitter about John needing a hat and gloves, about the weather and about how far they will need to walk tonight. And then about the church and Donald Donaldson who always insists on joining them but who couldn't carry a tune in a bucket (and where does she even get these outlandish phrases?) And on to about everyone meeting at the pub and singing on the green before they go to the old folks home and then door to door. And something about donkeys. And then she stops and Sherlock detects that the pause is there for him to make some kind of response. 

He huffs a breath and guesses. "Yes, of course, if it's for the donkeys," he agrees. 

There’s a silence and the corner of John's mouth twitches.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

John swallows, pressing his lips together and tries to look away. 

Sherlock makes an involuntary and most undignified snorting noise.

And suddenly they cannot hold it back any longer ; they are giggling like idiots - knowing they shouldn't, but unable to stop the swell of mirth that bubbles up and causes them to shake with inappropriate laughter. Every time one of them manages to stop, the other grins and off they go again. Mummy and Father are looking at them with mild alarm, which sets off another gale of chuckles until they are both breathless and teary, at which point Mummy informs them that she had no idea that donkeys were so amusing and that they need to be ready in ten minutes.

Veins singing with something like relief and still struck by sudden giggles, he and John climb the stairs to change into their warmest clothing and prepare for the evening ahead. There's a moment when Sherlock emerges from pulling on a thicker jumper that John stops and sighs, finally settling again. He smiles at Sherlock, reaches over and cautiously flicks a few of Sherlock's curls away from his face. 

"You've, uh... You'd better sort that out. Your jumper has made it all static," John explains, withdrawing his hand and gesturing to the mirror. 

Sherlock turns and is faced with the disaster that is his hair. The jumper was obviously the last straw and his curls have taken on a life of their own - frizzy and fluffy. It looks ridiculous, but behind him he can see John's smile is indescribably fond and soft, so Sherlock does the best he can, then shrugs, grabs his scarf and leads the way back down the stairs to begin lacing boots and finding coats.

There is already a group of well-bundled people standing in the gold light that pours from the pub they have already frequented once today. They seem a merry bunch and Sherlock has suspicions that some of them may have already been inside to wet their whistles, so to speak. They are handed sheets of lyrics and lanterns or candles in repurposed jam jars. It's all very 'Merrie England' and John catches Sherlock's grimace and laughs at him. 

In the glow of the windows, John looks especially fetching. He has a knitted hat and scarf that Sherlock recognises as being in his school house colours from decades ago - he had no idea that his mother had kept such a thing. The red and gold suit him and Sherlock watches John's breaths cloud into the air as he speaks to Father. He catches Sherlock's eye and quirks him a quick, slightly self-conscious grin. He seems relaxed and anyone who didn’t know him (and some who did) would be convinced that he was a mild, conventional man, a doctor, a conscientious caring soul - and he is all those things. But he is also a marksman, a man with a strong sense of right and wrong and an authoritative voice when needed, a man who doesn’t shirk responsibility and a man with an adventurous streak that needs exercising frequently. There’s a sharp edge to his smile, if you look closely, and when his smile turns soft, that edge jumps to his eyes and makes them glint with a barely suppressed spark of recklessness. 

Sherlock looks on with his head and heart in uproar. Half an hour ago he was convinced that John was letting him down gently and now... he has no idea. Their laughter has washed away the despair that Sherlock was feeling and left him feeling hopeful and hollowed out and strangely happy. Even if he's been completely wrong about the likelihood of John becoming involved with him romantically, he knows that he has underestimated their friendship which has survived arguments, objectionable experiments, homicidal criminal masterminds, injuries and absences. John is the most loyal friend he has ever known, and the fact that the loyalty is to Sherlock never ceases to amaze him and make him feel almost humble. 

Finally the singers, reluctant and otherwise, are called to order. John and Sherlock manage to find places at the back of the group. The organiser announces their first song and off they go. 

**7.14 p.m**.

John isn't surprised to learn that Sherlock has a mellow baritone and that he sings quietly, not even glancing at the lyrics on the sheet they are sharing. John is not so gifted and has to follow along, lifting his candle high enough for it to shed its barely sufficient light on the pages in his hand. He's glad they have started with _God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen_ ; it's one of his favourites. He remembers belting it out with Harry in rare high spirits when they were young. They didn't know how the lyrics went after 'let nothing you dismay' and mostly used to cram the words Christmas Day into the rest of the tune. It's a rare, happy memory of his sister and John feels grateful for it. 

Of course he cannot get away with that here and he mostly hums along getting a twitch of a smile from Sherlock because of it. They go straight into _The Sussex Carol_ , which John doesn't recognise until he hears the melody. He hums along again, not knowing how the lyrics fit into the complicated rhythm. Both Mycroft and Sherlock seem to know it quite well and John ends up watching the Holmes brothers studiously ignoring each other while doing anything so deeply embarrassing as singing in public. John wonders if they had ever been choristers and spends an amusing couple of verses imagining Mycroft and Sherlock scowling in cassocks and cottas, all scrubbed up by Mummy on a Sunday morning. Somehow he doubts it, but it amuses him all the same.

It seems like most of the pub have turned out to listen and join in, and a rousing version of _Ding Dong Merrily on High_ makes it easy for John to pick out Donald Donaldson who unfortunately comes to stand a few paces in front of John. The man is an interesting ruddy colour that probably has more to do with the pub than with the freezing evening. They sing one more, _We Wish You A Merry Christmas_ before the collecting tins go round and their voices are joined by the clink of coins being donated by the pub clientele. Apparently the donkeys are a cause worth supporting.

It's not far to the old people's home which is a more modern building tucked away behind high hedges. The walk is an opportunity for the mismatched choir to inquire about their newest member. John does his best to be polite and answer their questions without inviting more. Sherlock, the git, just grins at him when a couple of the village ladies seem to take an interest in why a nice young doctor like himself hasn't been snapped up already. Damn Sherlock for introducing him with his title - it always makes the eyes of certain age groups of women light up. 

They squash themselves into the day room of the old folks home and sing a couple more classics to the residents, and John even knows the words to these, so he joins in earning himself a roll of Sherlock's eyes, which earns Sherlock a kick in the ankle which earns them both a raised eyebrow from Mycroft. 

When they have all been given a slice of dubious looking Christmas cake, they leave the elderly residents and start walking through the village, singing under the few street lights while volunteers go door to door collecting from the households. It's a slow process and John is beginning to feel quite hoarse. By the time they wind their way back towards the church he's also rapidly losing the feeling in his fingers, nose and toes from the bitter cold that has come down since the sun set. They reach the lychgate as the clock strikes half past nine, the soft glow of the church candles lighting up the stained glass. Apparently there is some sort of supper organised for the singers and John isn't sorry at all when Sherlock declares that they have done their bit for the evening and will meet the rest of the family back at the house later. Mycroft, strangely, opts to stay and takes his mother's arm as they walk up the frost glittered path towards the door, leaving Sherlock and John to walk home alone. 

There are no stars tonight and the moon is little more than a marginally lighter area of sky through the thick clouds that have built up during the day. John briefly considers getting out his phone and using the torch on there, but he knows that it will alter the mood that has settled over them both. They walk the path toward the house slowly now, Sherlock still holding his jam jar lantern, its gentle flicker casting complimentary brightness across his cheeks and into his hair. They can see the lights of the house already when the first flakes begin to their slow spinning waltz from above. They both stop to look up and John cannot stop the wondrous grin that breaks across his face. Within thirty seconds the sky is filled with the crazy, lazy tumble of soft, fat snowflakes, falling as fast as they are silent. 

It never snows on Christmas Eve in England. The white Christmas that everyone sings about is practically a myth; something that happens once in a lifetime if at all, and John cannot even remember more than a hard frost or a spell of sleety rain that had filled him with hope as a child before disappointing him. Not only that but he has never seen such a lot of snow, already making it hard to see far, the house and the church indistinct shadows betrayed only by their lights. It is settling already, turning the path and the grass verges to sparkling white. Perhaps this is the feeling that John has been having for the last two days. Perhaps the anticipation of this perfect sight has been what has made him so certain that something was going to happen. Perhaps he'd subconsciously heard a weather report or seen a headline that, while it hadn't stuck in his mind, had registered enough for him to expect this.

When the flakes are falling too dizzyingly fast for him to keep his eyes open any longer, John looks down to his friend's face and realises, instantly, that he was wrong about the snow. As rare and magical and beautiful as it is, it is not what he has been waiting for. Instead it's this; Sherlock with his head tipped back and his eyes shut while the snow has settled on his shoulders, his scarf and in his hair, making it look like confetti at a wedding. And what it does is make John certain that the unnerving chance he must take, if he is to win this man's love, is worth it because for everything else that he is - brilliant, loyal, arrogant, sulky, rude, driven - he is also this; human, capable of wonder and simple happiness, and just possibly able to return the endless love that John has for him. 

**9.47 p.m.**

Sherlock looks down to share a smile with John, who will be ridiculously and endearingly excited by this predicted weather front. Sherlock will reluctantly admit that it is already looking to be one of the biggest snowfalls he has ever encountered in this country. This is not the usual slushy, wet snow that melts on impact with the ground, nor the tiny flakes that have no hope of leaving more than a dusting of white. The flakes are dry and clumping together to make them look like feathers, spinning down. 

John is staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face. He blinks when he notices Sherlock's look of question and stands a little straighter and Sherlock has the impression that his friend is going to speak, but his candle gutters and flares, fizzing at the snowflakes that reach the flame. Sherlock puts his hand above the glass and when he looks up again the moment is broken, They share a grin and set off quickly towards the smudges of light which are all they can see of the house now.

A quick glance over his shoulder shows that their footprints are filling with snow again within a few seconds of them passing and they walk through the gateway to the house only a minute later stopping to turn under the wooden porch that covers the front door, and look out at the gathering snow. The porch is only as wide as the front door, so they are stood quite closely together, keeping out of the falling snow. The porch light has not been left on for some reason and the only illumination is coming from the windows where lights have been left on to welcome them home, and Sherlock's candle which had survived its brush with extinguishment. 

Sherlock has the key in his pocket and he goes to pull it out now, aware that he is having to brush up against John or risk banging his elbows on the ancient timbers that support the porch. To be fair, he isn't exactly averse to being intimately acquainted with John and of the two options, he knows that he prefers the first one by quite some margin. He murmurs an apology as he leans against John's shoulder to get his hand into the pocket of his jeans which is more easily said than done when he has a coat and a jumper on. Finally, he has the key in his hand and he grasps it, pulling it out to unlock the door. 

Unfortunately, his cold hands are just chilled enough that his single-handed grasp on his candle lantern slips, promising a very loud and far flung end to his jam jar. As he fumbles and the jar slides through his fingers, John is there, supporting the impromptu lantern from below and covering Sherlock's hand with his own, steadying his grip on it. 

To his surprise, John doesn't withdraw his hand. They have turned towards each other to avert the fall of the jar and their hands are overlapping on the warm glass. John has that same look in his eye as he had earlier - in fact several times earlier today. It is direct and uncompromising and Sherlock braces himself for the words that are to come. Wistful and determined are the emotions that Sherlock is picking up from John's body language and they cannot be a good combination. 

Seconds tick by under their little sheltered corner, their own quiet combining with the silence of the world turning white just a few centimetres from where they are standing. The anticipation of John saying his piece and finding out what that might be is tempered by the desire for time to stop altogether. There is so much about this moment that Sherlock wishes to record, any number of observations that he could make to add context to this memory when he comes to take it out in the future. Something is going to happen, and this is the moment that everything is about to change, to swing into motion and change the course of Sherlock's life, be it good or bad. Should it be the gentle rejection that he fears, he just wants these seconds to hang so he can remain in the moment before John closes off all other potential outcomes for this point in time where anything is still possible.

Finally, _finally_ , John speaks. "Sherlock, I..." and just as Sherlock's stomach swoops, preparing for the worst, John Watson - his guest, his plus one, his flatmate and friend, blows out the candle and stretches up to put a hand on Sherlock's neck and pull him down for a kiss.

With the key in one hand and the lantern in the other, Sherlock is unable to return the touch. John’s hands are cold as they find skin that is not covered by his scarf and his fingers are pleasant against his suddenly overheated skin. This is no peck on the lips, there can be no ambiguity in the interpretation of John's intention. He intended to kiss Sherlock, and he is doing so with commitment and attention to detail that has Sherlock aching for more. 

John must have done this lots of times - he's very good at it - and any lingering reservations that Sherlock had about kissing being wet, unhygienic and alarming are finally laid to rest. John's mouth is warm and insistent without being demanding, his tongue touches against the centre of Sherlock's lower lip and he cannot help but make a small involuntary sound at the shock and the thrill of it. He practically falls into John's chest in his haste to receive more of his warmth and breath and attention. But John is sturdy, and doesn't give an inch even when Sherlock crowds him with his taller frame. 

And then John's hand is on his jaw, gently tipping his head, so he can get a different angle. It's even better. John is brilliant. Insightful. Smiling? He can feel John's lips stretch into a grin against his mouth (the sensation is delicious), but then he cups Sherlock's cheek and disengages, dabbing one, two, three smaller kisses as he steps back.

"I need to check on Crispian one more time before I turn in. I'll see you in a minute," he smiles, brushing his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip as he plucks the key from Sherlock's unresisting fingers and lets himself in.

It takes some seconds for Sherlock to come back from the overload of images and sensations, and he struggles to capture them all in minute detail. He doesn't wish to overlook a single aspect of the last few minutes, so checks and double checks each element before he blinks stupidly at the space that was so recently filled by his friend. His John, now in more ways than one.

The door is ajar and Sherlock pushes it open, slips inside and closes it behind him. John's wet boots are against the wall (laces still tied - he stepped on the heels and prised them off) and his coat is hanging up on the peg. The borrowed hat and scarf are on the radiator, placed there neatly to dry out. Sherlock can't remove his outerwear quickly enough, his boots kicked to the side of the hallway and his coat half on, half off its peg. In his socks, he follows John's path, up the backstairs and along the corridor to Crispian's bedroom. Pressing his ear to the door, he can hear the men talking softly. It would appear that Crispian was asleep when John knocked. if the low murmur of his voice is anything to go on -but then with Crispian, one cannot really tell. Sherlock strains to hear what is passing between them, to discern any shred of what John might be giving away with his tone of voice but the walls and the door are too thick - it's as if their conversation is being held in deliberately lowered voices. 

Sherlock returns to the smaller sitting room where a fire has been banked and is slowly collapsing into itself awaiting the log and the ventilation that will bring it back into flame. He replays John's final words in his mind, looks at them this way and that, and cannot find any indication that John regretted kissing him. His manner had been curious and perhaps a little cautious - expecting a different response from Sherlock, perhaps? So what had made him rush off like that? Was it indeed to doctor his false cousin? Perhaps the cold? Had his own reactions been so sluggish as to make John doubt his welcome? The final kisses had not been the action of a man who had reservations. 

Sherlock throws himself down on the sofa - he's pacing and that isn't what he wants John to see when (if?) he finally returns or rumbles Crispian's lies. It might make John think that Sherlock's reaction to his kiss was anything but ecstatic. There are so many things to think about when one is in a relationship - Sherlock will have to be much more careful about reviewing John's actions and words to double check he has not overlooked something important. But he's getting ahead of himself. 

To calm his spinning mind, Sherlock tucks his hands beneath his chin and tries to calm himself enough to enter his mind palace. Perhaps a review of everything he knows about the actions required of a participant in a romantic partnership. It will show him where the gaps in his knowledge lay. 

**11.40 p.m.**

John found Sherlock after several long, frantic minutes of searching - of course the man had gone horizontal on a sofa that faced away from the door into the room, meaning that John had bypassed this sitting room twice, only finding him once he was making one final, more thorough search in preparation for trying his mobile phone.

John has heard the others come in from supper, go and get changed and head back out to mass, the bell from the church tolling its single chime, calling the faithful from their cosy homes out into the cold one more time to celebrate. The family hadn't come looking for them and John hadn't revealed where he and the madman were.

Sherlock has been silently perusing his mind palace for over forty minutes now. At least John assumes he's in there. It doesn't seem like he's asleep with all the frowns and mutters, and his closed eyes flicking from side to side as he thinks. Maybe John's broken him. Could it be that after all Sherlock has - all that they have _both_ been through, that it is a kiss that finally does for the world's only consulting detective. John smirks at his ridiculous thought, but it doesn't stop him from casting another, more thorough look at the man, flat out on the sofa. He's fine, of course. That doesn't mean that it wouldn't be quite good if he woke up or exited or whatever he does, right about now. 

John has fetched his book and read a fair few pages since he sat down in an armchair that was perfectly placed for facing the sofa yet close to the fire. Watching Sleeping Beauty over there is all very well, but he knows that he needs to explain himself, and although the kiss had been very good and (he hopes) well received, it hasn't really given them a clear understanding of where they stand now. Neither of them are great communicators when it comes to personal matters - giving orders, pointing out (obvious) clues and telling people they are idiots are all simple, but telling someone about matters of the heart, about devotion and about respect are not their style - not to each other's faces anyway. 

He can't even begin to decide where to begin when it comes to telling Sherlock the things that he wants him to know. Isn't the man supposed to be good at knowing things by looking at people? Why doesn't he already know about John's deep and abiding love? Is it because, like John himself, it had grown and evolved so naturally, so easily? Within a day, John had known he didn't want to live a life that didn't have Sherlock Holmes in it somewhere. Within a week, he didn't recognise the broken, depressed man he had been just a few short days before. Within a month he began to miss the lanky sod when he wasn't around and within three he had realised that this was where he wanted to be for the rest of his life. Was it love already, by then? John believes it was, of a sort and the fault had been his. If Sherlock had been a woman, John would have gone down on one knee already. His own hang ups and prejudices had prevented him from realising that the devotion he felt to his amazing friend was the thing he hadn't expected to be able to feel for a man. It was love; not attraction or companionship or a deep friendship or any of the other things he had told himself to explain why Sherlock was rapidly becoming the very centre of his life. He hadn't fought the realisation, but he hadn't exactly embraced it either. It just was and he was content to leave it at that. Soon, however, he had begun to understand that, for him, with love had come attraction and that attraction is an itch that he has been ignoring (or trying to) for months now. It was only a matter of time before he'd had to say something to bring things to a head. If Sherlock doesn't love him back, then it won't change the way John feels about him. He doesn't think anything will now, but if Sherlock were amenable, and of a similar mind, then... well, then. 

The peal of the bells ringing in Christmas Day startle John, even as muffled as they are in the snowy night. John glances at his watch redundantly, of course it's midnight and John stretches in his seat, wondering how long it's going to be before Sherlock emerges.

And then he notices silver blue eyes, watching him intently from the sofa.


	3. Christmas Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas Day - so what goodies did Sherlock and John find under the tree?
> 
> (If you guessed 'each other' you get ten house points! )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah... I seem to have missed my Twelfth night target by a bit of a stretch, but here is the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who has read and commented and kudosed! I very much appreciate your support.

**12.01 a.m. Christmas Day**

At first, they say nothing. Sherlock is waiting for John to speak and John is presumably waiting for something similar. Having accessed his less than extensive knowledge of romance, Sherlock then reviewed John's behaviours over the last couple of days. Even factoring in how well he knows John, he still cannot predict with much certainty how the upcoming hour will go. There does not appear to be a hidden agenda; John has his chin propped on his hand, watching him with soft eyes and a smile that looks set to break out any second. He only moves when Sherlock sits up, straightening, waiting for the next step. 

"Merry Christmas, John," Sherlock says, his voice rough after the singing and the quiet of his mind palace excursion. 

John half smiles, listening to the triumphant sound of the bells. They are still ringing, which means that it won't be long before his family return from mass. He wonders if this will give them enough time to talk, now John's act has finally brought the situation to a head. 

"You too," John says, clearing his throat. There's a tilt to his head that might be amusement or perhaps this is the regard of a man who has played his cards and knows there is no turning back now. "I hope you have hung up your stocking, and left out a sherry for Father Christmas and a carrot for Rudolph." 

Humour is often John's deflection when circumstances turn serious; humour or sarcasm. Sherlock gives him a tiny smile, acknowledging his words but he doesn't take it further, and John looks down, realising, perhaps, that this is a situation where levity might need to wait until the talking is done.

"You took me by surprise, you know," Sherlock offers quietly when the pause stretches too far. 

John rolls his shoulders and wets his lip. "When? On the porch?"

"Yes, but not only there. You're constantly surprising me, which is just as rare as you might think."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not," John admits. He looks tired, as one might expect after a day like they have just had, but his eyes, as always, are alert and bright. He leans back in his chair, relaxing into the conversation which Sherlock takes as a good sign. 

"It is, of a sort," Sherlock assures him. 

"So you're not... upset with me?"

Sherlock shakes his head and it seems to unlock John's words.

"I've been trying all day to think of how to start a conversation that might clarify how I feel about you - all month, all year, if I'm honest."

"And do you think you have now? Clarified, I mean," Sherlock asks.

"To some extent. I'm glad you know - whatever happens next."

"And what is it I am supposed to know?"

John looks up at that, searches his face for something that isn't there, judging from the relieved drop of his shoulders.

"That... that... Sherlock! I kissed you... a lot!. What do you think I was trying to say?"

"I have recently learned that my experience and knowledge concerning such matters is likely not sufficient for me to be able to interpret with complete accuracy. Am I to think that you feel some... admiration for me?" Sherlock is only half teasing. To assume that John is offering what Sherlock wants would be foolhardy without a lot more evidence. He hopes, of course, but hope often clouds the clarity of thought.

"Admiration?" John actually laughs at that. "Yeah, admiration would be one word for it. Think on, Holmes."

Ah, the rally of this conversation is as thrilling as it is dreadful - each of them seeking to pass the responsibility for the outcome to the other.

"Perhaps affection? Fondness?" Sherlock swallows so his voice won't crack on him as he speaks. "Desire?"

John's eyes spark and he unselfconsciously strokes his throat with a finger. "All of that. Keep going."

"I'm not sure I can, John, not without making a fool of myself. You are much better versed in matters such as these."

"Not like this. Never before like this," John says, his eyes holding Sherlock's, his honesty transparent until it overwhelms him and he has to look away.

"So... what you’re saying is that you..."

"Love you," John finishes for him, taking pity on Sherlock's lack of confidence. The admission seems to strengthen his resolve and he lifts his chin. "Yeah. I do. I love you."

Sherlock had hoped, longed really, for John to be the one person who might say those words to him. And now he has, and while it is a dizzyingly wonderful revelation, it has also uncovered Sherlock's woefully inadequate understanding of all matters of the heart.

"How do you feel about that?"

John's chin is back in his hand and the fire has burned down to the merest glimmer. Sherlock has missed something and he wonders just how long he has been silent. It’s not a short period going by John’s slightly rattled but amused demeanour.

"I’m... I don’t want to mess this up. I want to be worthy of it. I want to understand what it means and I want you to teach me."

John's eyes darken at his words and he unconsciously leans toward Sherlock - some part of this sentiment appeals to him, clearly, but his brows draw down a little.

"This isn't an experiment. This isn't something you theorise about and test, Sherlock. This is something you know. You just know. So...?" John's eyebrows lift. He sits back when Sherlock pauses to think, and any idiot knows that body language isn't promising.

"No, it's not what you are thinking. John, in this regard you are the single point of reference in my life. How would I know if the things I am experiencing are what _ you _ would call love?"

Sherlock puts up a hand to stop John's response again - he knows that this is not what he wants to hear, but this is all new territory for Sherlock and something he hadn't expected to have to put into words. To say 'I love you too' might be hugely understating what he feels. People say  _ I love you _ all the time - the words are cheap, a currency of more than one meaning. 

John sighs and nods. "So tell me," he invites, holding on to his emotions with admirable control, clear from only a glance at his hands, shoulders and lower lip.

"I am not accustomed to thinking about other people’s sensibilities in my day to day existence. I have lived alongside other people before, but the truth is that I didn't even notice that I had driven them away until long after they had gone. You were something different, right from the very beginning. I had no need to try to conceal who or what I was. You would rant about my experiments and the insanitary nature of the refrigerator, but then you would make me tea or help me with a case or save my life. This was a revelation to me. You can see why it took me some time to understand that you considered me to be a friend - you were like no one I had ever met before.”

“Best friend,” John corrects quietly, clears his throat and clarifies. “You’re my best friend.”

Sherlock has no answer for that but nods at him, to show that he understands the importance of such a role.

“I found myself thinking about you and your needs, your likes and dislikes. And I began to take them into consideration. I told myself that it was because you tolerated me and that tolerance actually made my life easier. But it soon went beyond that. I didn't go out of my way so as not to annoy you, instead I found myself doing things simply because I knew you would like them. Because it would make you happy. I hadn't made anyone happy in a very long time, but I began to enjoy it. And the more you smiled and laughed and  _ stayed _ , the more I wanted to make you do those things. It was... surprising and surprisingly addictive. So when I sat down one day and considered all these adjustments I had made and all the ways in which you made adjustments for me, I had an inkling that I might be in love with you. But without the necessary experience or knowledge at my disposal, I was at a loss for how to gauge our relationship. Did you know that there are very few publications that deal with the mechanics of falling in love? But a plethora of them dealing with what to do once you were, many of them rather alarming. So when this weekend away was offered, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to see if my deep regard and affection for you could be something that you would recognise as love."

John sits in stunned silence for a few moments before he swipes a thumb along his eyebrow. "It sounds like love to me," he says quietly and bites his lip, before a delighted smile breaks out across his face. "That's exactly what it sounds like."

"Then I think that perhaps we should... um... try the... kissing again. Now my hands are empty. And we're both on the same page, as it were."

"Yeah?" John asks, his head tilting. "We can do that. We can definitely do that."

Inevitably that’s the moment the family chooses to arrive home from church. They are trying to be quiet, but Mummy's voice does carry so. As does Mycroft’s. There are footsteps and rustlings, doors being locked and murmured conversations. John and Sherlock share a look that encompasses their dismay at being interrupted. John's wide eyes stray from the sitting room door to Sherlock.

"Quickly, come here!" Sherlock whispers, and John does so without question. The little squeeze he feels below his ribs should be familiar by now, but it still takes Sherlock by surprise.

Squashing himself back against the sofa, he makes a space for John to join him, stretched out on the sofa. John has already experienced how good a hiding place this can be when viewed quickly from the door, and Sherlock is pleased when John grins at the simplicity of Sherlock's plan. He fits himself into the space left for him with the minimum of fuss and holds his breath.

In the hallway, the party are beginning to retire to bed. Quiet goodnights are punctuated by the little bedtime chores his parent's always complete - switching off lights, winding the hall clock, checking the locks, and he and John freeze as the sitting room door is softly opened accompanied by a subtle gust of cool air; the scent of candle wax and winter. There is a long silence and then Mycroft's voice as the door is pulled closed. 

"All fine in here, Father. Goodnight and sleep well." 

The lights are switched off and the footsteps finally climb the stairs.

John exhales with a hissed laugh. "Do you think he knew we were here?"

"Probably. He owes me. I've covered for him enough times."

John makes a face and Sherlock clarifies quickly before the thought gets out of hand. "Oh god, no! Not for anything like this..."

They snort and grin at each other in the light from the Christmas tree until the moment turns sober as they realise how very small the sofa is with two grown men squashed onto it. 

John's face is level with his own, which is rather nice, Sherlock finds. There's not much light, but he has a much better view of his eyes than normal - John has nice eyes. Expressive. They are very intense right now.

John swallows, tries a smile. "So... er, about the kissing. You said that we should... do you want to try that again? Now?"

Sherlock nods and follows John's lead as he puts an arm around Sherlock's waist, fitting them together even better than they were. Holding John in his embrace is overwhelming in a deeply satisfying way. It's not as strange as he imagined it might be. Elbows and faces and shoulders just seem to slot into place without having to think too much about it and Sherlock is surprised and glad that his body seems to know how to do this thing instead of falling down at the first hurdle. 

John's mouth is warm and firm as he takes the lead and initiates the kiss. And this too seems to be something that Sherlock is able to intuit from the way they move and from the way his body wants to accommodate John in such close contact. There’s no rejection or hesitation, only John’s soft hums and sighs. It feels similar to the best kind of deductive process; the way the clues sometimes flow seamlessly from one to the next to the next. It’s when Sherlock is at his peak, when John looks at him with adoring eyes and tells him how amazing he is, how incredible and… 

And Sherlock should have noticed a lot sooner that the common denominator in these disparate states is John Watson. He should have trusted his instincts, as untried as they were, and made a play for John months ago. 

Sherlock is deeply relieved not to have to be thinking about the kissing because it is giving him free rein to experience. John's kisses are knowing and confident, and Sherlock cannot get enough of them. He kisses Sherlock’s lips open and gently dips inside with his tongue which does something delicious to Sherlock's stomach, making it feel molten and warm. As close as they are, it's not close enough for Sherlock, and not for John either it would appear when he hooks his calf around Sherlock's and pulls them closer together.

Sherlock wants to try the thing with his tongue too, wants John to experience the same swooping feeling in his stomach and the heat that seems to start somewhere deep inside and radiates into every part of him. When John pauses for breath, Sherlock closes the distance between their mouths and touches just the very tip of his tongue to John's bottom lip and it's as good as he imagined it would be. John hums, and Sherlock, made bold by this approval, takes John's lip between his own and sucks at it gently. John tries to pull him closer still and he weaves his other hand over Sherlock's shoulder so he can hug him tight. 

There's a bit of jostling to get the best angle and neither of them seems to want to stop kissing to facilitate that. John licks along Sherlock's top lip now and slips inside to touch against his own tongue. Sherlock thinks he might be unwell, his stomach is tumbling so, but he also feels amazing; aching in the best and sweetest way. He's already hard and from John's shifts and wiggles, he thinks he might be too. And Sherlock wants to feel that - he wants to feel the proof of what he does to John - is it the same as what John does to him? Does John feel like he might just expire with joy and want?

Sherlock tries to burrow further in, to push his own body inside John's. He's ravenous, and greedy for the sensations that John is pulling out for him. He’s equally as eager to share his own ideas. John groans, deep and long and hungry. Being brilliant, he lifts up and rolls Sherlock onto his back, slotting himself between Sherlock's legs and leaving only the smallest, most insignificant space between them now. There's a moment's pause as they both acknowledge the press of each other's cocks. 

John's breath is harsh and Sherlock's is positively shuddering as he tentatively lifts his hips towards John's heat and solidness. The feeling of accomplishment and arousal is a heady mix, and Sherlock wants to laugh out loud or weep or... god, he doesn't even know. It feels so good. He knows what an orgasm feels like, and he knows how to give himself that release when he needs it, but this is an entirely different level. Orgasms in the company of another, aided by another have the edge of unpredictability that makes them all the more sublime. 

John groans and gently pushes back at Sherlock's gesture and that feels... increasingly unsustainable. Sherlock bites his lip and closes his eyes. John covers his neck in sharp, hot little kisses.

"We're going too fast. Are we going too fast?" John pants, barely taking his lips from Sherlock's skin.

"No, no, John. It's good."

"Sherlock, if this is.... you know..." John lifts his face away now, beginning to sound concerned and Sherlock might not know exactly what he wants - he doesn't yet know all the options - but he knows he does not want to stop to talk about boring things like John's conscience right now. It's mistargeted anyway. Sherlock is no blushing teenager; he may not have ever done this with another person before but he is aware of how this part of a relationship works, at least, even if the love part is fiendishly tricky to pin down. Although he's feeling a lot more confident about that now too. It had been staring him in the face the whole time - for months apparently. 

Sherlock decides to let his instinct help out again and bends his knees, twining one of them around John's thigh and pulling their groins into closer contact still. John's eyelashes flutter and he huffs out a curse. Sherlock sympathises; if the accidental touches and the careful sweeps were good, then this is off the scale. Her rocks against John in short, aborted thrusts, unwilling to stop now he has discovered what prolonged stimulation feels like.

"Sherlock," John murmurs, a conflicted sound. 

A glance at him is sufficient to see that he is both highly aroused but also concerned. A second glance reveals that it is Sherlock that he is still concerned about - some misplaced gallantry or doubt as to his awareness of where this is leading. Had he not intended for this to progress as far as it had? Touching but unnecessary. Sherlock seeks to reassure him by working his hand beneath the layers of John's clothing and spreading his questing palm across John's body; a second point of skin-to-skin contact and John's face goes slack with sensation. 

The smoothness of John's back is warm and alive, and Sherlock feels the jolt of connection and want deep in his abdomen. He presses John's back at the same time as he pushes up into his body; his intention cannot be anything but clear now. 

John catches Sherlock's gaze and stares down at him with wonder and lingering doubt, almost eclipsed now by hope. 

"Yeah?" he breathes.

"Yes, John. Come on!"

John smiles. "Ah, that sounds more familiar," he jokes, but before Sherlock can respond John has carded his fingers into Sherlock's hair and tipped his chin, so their lips can meet and give him access to Sherlock's mouth, sweeping deeper now with his tongue, making Sherlock groan quietly but sincerely.

John begins to rock against Sherlock's rhythm; slower and more skilfully. The drag of John's cock, easily discernible through his jeans and underwear is deliberate and targeted. He aligns them, despite the material in the way, and Sherlock is speechless at how good it feels. Every innovation John employs seems to increase the pleasure to previously unimagined heights. Sherlock is convinced that he has never experienced such a wealth of sensation even in the act of orgasm by his own hand. 

John's thighs tense and slacken against his own, and Sherlock longs to feel that power more intimately. He slides his hands down John's back and onto the denim covering his arse. The stretch and swell of those muscles are as potent as Sherlock had imagined and his grip tightens to fully appreciate John's powerful, compact body. John's breathing becomes ever more laboured, but Sherlock doesn't believe it's physical exertion that is the cause. Sherlock is experiencing something similar himself - he’s trembling and he doesn't seem to be able to control it. His skin feels like it's burning and he needs... something. He can't express what it is, but as good as he feels right now, he knows that there is something else, just there, and if he can flex the right muscle or stretch the right sinew he will capture it.

He must make some kind of noise, as John pulls back from their kiss and searches Sherlock's eyes, looking feverish and needing himself. 

"Look at you," he mutters, and he doesn't seem to need an answer because he sweeps the hair out of Sherlock's face then pushes his hand between their bodies and cups Sherlock's cock, kneading and rubbing and outlining the shape and heft of him. Sherlock cannot physically lift himself off the sofa with John lying on top of him, but he tries, pushing himself into John's hand, arching his back and closing his eyes against the overload that is coming. 

"Can I? I want to see you when you..." John's voice is gravel dipped in dark chocolate, rough and earthy but so, so sweet.

"Yes, yes, please John," Sherlock interrupts because John has stopped the delicious rubbing and whatever it is that he wants he can have as long as he gets back to that maddening friction. 

John unbuttons and unzips Sherlock's jeans with admirable skill, but finding himself unable to process anything but the touch of John's fingers as he slips his hand inside his pants, Sherlock lets it go unmarked. His hand spreads through the hair at his groin, then he turns it, so he is grasping the shaft of Sherlock's cock. He twitches and the ache becomes all consuming. John is murmuring to him, words of praise and encouragement that aren't really registering, John's grip tightens and he strokes experimentally. Sherlock's hands are on John's shoulders, his fingers digging in in a way that cannot be comfortable for him, yet he finds himself unable to let go.

John is up on his knees, giving himself enough room to stroke Sherlock, to watch him and press kisses to his mouth and throat and jaw. Sherlock knows that his climax is almost upon him - he cannot quite believe that he hasn't succumbed already, but there is something more that he wants.

"You too," he pants, and his voice is barely his own, so rough and strained.

And John consolidates his brilliance, by knowing exactly what Sherlock wants with a single glance. He lets Sherlock go (which is horrible but necessary) and single handedly unbuttons and unzips his own jeans too. With a wriggle and a shove he is bared from belly to thighs. Uncoordinated, but determined, Sherlock follows his lead and the second they are both prepared, John lowers himself back into the cradle of Sherlock's hips. There isn't much room to spread his legs, but John cleverly straddles one of Sherlock's thighs, giving them both enough room to line themselves up and...

Oh, god! It's bliss. It's warm and scratchy and rough and smooth and dry and slick and Sherlock can get both hands on the skin of John's arse and pull him in to exactly where he needs to feel him. John's balls are cool where they rest against Sherlock's, and his shaft is smooth and rigid and slightly tacky from the precome that is beading at the tip of him. Sherlock knows he is being rough, rutting against John like this. His fingertips must be marking the pale skin of John's arse, his nails digging in as he seeks to increase the friction, but John is equally as greedy, one hand against Sherlock's spine, holding him steady and one hand in his hair, pulling Sherlock's mouth to his in panted breaths and hard, biting kisses. It all becomes one - their pace, their breath, their heat and it feels like this is the climax of so much more than a day or two of sexual tension. It feels like they have been dancing towards this for months, years, forever.

Sherlock comes on a keening breath that John immediately kisses from his lips. Every muscle of his body feels overexerted and taut as he pulses against John's skin. He buries his head into Sherlock's neck and rocks into the slickness that coats their bellies now. Still riding the last few moments of his orgasm, Sherlock is too spent to do much more than put a hand to the nape of John's neck and murmur his name into his ear, but it seems to be enough because within a few more strokes, John is shuddering, gasping and coming apart in his arms.

John is heavy as they recover themselves and the room is cold wherever they are not touching. Their combined release is a sticky, drying mess and the whole room smells of sex, even over the scent of the spruce and the wood smoke. It's completely, utterly wonderful, and if he could get a decent breath, he might consider staying here all night. John stirs, lifts his head and presses a kiss into the palm that Sherlock had been absently stroking though John's hair. 

John lifts up onto his elbow and fumbles with his jeans, producing a handkerchief which he gallantly offers to Sherlock first before accepting back to wipe himself down, making them only marginally less disgusting than they were before. With a bit more wriggling and shoving they both manage to get themselves tucked away and their clothes straight-ish. Sherlock supposes they should take themselves off to their room now, maybe shower and change, but the thought of sleeping in his hateful single bed with John more than an arm's length away is utterly unacceptable. Sherlock is well versed in sleeping on sofas, but John's thoughts on the matter have to be taken into account.

**12.48 a.m.**

Sherlock is still lying on the sofa with the residual flush from their lovemaking still visible on his cheeks and throat. His mouth is reddened too from stubble burn and John can feel his own face prickling from the same. He could stretch out a finger and touch the fabric of Sherlock's shirt without moving his hand, yet he misses the big idiot. He is so smitten, it would be embarrassing if Sherlock knew, but then John looks at Sherlock's face and sees a similar expression staring back at him.

"I don't want to go to bed yet," Sherlock says in the strange quiet tone one uses when the rest of the house is hopefully asleep. John nods but he knows Sherlock's propensity for staying up all night when John is safely in bed, and he doesn't want that tonight. Sherlock looks a little hesitant then suggests, "Can we stay here for a bit longer?"

The smile that slips across Sherlock's lips in reply to John's must be one of the most unselfconscious expressions he has ever seen on his face. 

"Yeah, good idea. I need a drink though. Be right back." 

Leaving Sherlock sprawled across the sofa like a recently debauched Roman emperor, John uses the downstairs loo quickly, then goes to the kitchen for a big glass of milk. With a grin, he digs out a surprise for Sherlock and pads back to the sitting room where the fairy lights cast a bright glow around the tree. Sherlock has already made a pile of cushions for their heads and has dragged down the big knitted throw from the back of the sofa. John pops his glass and a plate down on the floor by the sofa and grabs the TV remote. He peers at it for a couple of moments, then manages to switch it on, turn the volume to zero and find a channel showing _ It's A Wonderful Life _ . 

He shrugs at Sherlock's raised eyebrow and climbs over to lay down next to him, tugging the throw over both of them and leaving his arm draped across Sherlock's chest where he has rolled to face the TV. The feeling that washes across him like an incoming tide is contentment, excitement, gratitude and that's just for starters. The anticipation has been banked for now, but John has the feeling that a certain glance from the man in his arms will bring it roaring back to full flame again without notice. 

Sherlock passes the milk to John, taking a healthy few swigs of it himself first, just as John knew he would and his surprise gift of mince pies, although not his to give strictly, are also well received. 

"Mummy told you where she had hidden them!" Sherlock grumbles.

"Thought you would have worked it out," John admits.

"I would have if I hadn't been completely preoccupied by getting the romantic attentions of my idiot roommate," Sherlock murmurs, so John takes away one of his pies and eats it himself. 

Within fifteen minutes the flickering black and white film and the warm space they have created for themselves has them both drowsing. 

John cannot resist digging his nose in Sherlock's hair and breathing in the scent of him. A heavy, sleepy, pliant Sherlock is the most wondrous thing that John has ever held, even one that sulks about mince pies. 

"Do we need to clear out? Do your parents get up early?"

"Not the night after they have been wandering around the village and then attending a church service until past midnight. They're no longer young."

"I think they are amazing." John thinks of his family, ordinary people with ordinary problems. His father, a drinker and a gambler who was dead by the time he was fifty, a mother who never got over their lack of respectability and seemed to care more about that than the happiness of her children, and a sister who has her own set of demons and struggles with them to this day. He has some good memories of them he has been surprised to realise over the last few days, and that's a comfort.

John's eyes are getting heavier, his blinks are lasting minutes at a time. Sherlock is still awake, but seems content to lie in his arms quietly, ignoring the television in favour of whatever is going on in that head of his. His silence is calm and content, rather than the ominous lack of sound that precede one of his olympic standard rants or strops, and John feels pretty pleased with himself that he has been instrumental in bringing this miracle about. John knows a gift horse when he sees one - a quiet Sherlock, a quiet house, a bit of a cuddle and Christmas lights - he's not going to moan about any of that. The only slight discomfort is having his underwear dried to his skin, but given the circumstances of how that happened, he can't help but love that too. 

The next time John opens his eyes, the fire is out completely and the only light is coming from the tree. Sherlock must have switched off the TV at some point because the rest of the room is in complete darkness. John has no idea what time it is, but his shoulder is stiff and he's beginning to feel a need to pee again. 

"It's a quarter to six," mutters Sherlock, burrowing back into the warmth of John's body. John thinks about the renewed interest that a certain part of him is showing - was it really only yesterday morning that he'd hobbled to the bathroom and had to quickly rub one out in order to be able to accompany Sherlock downstairs to breakfast without embarrassing himself? It feel like so much longer. So much has happened, it feels like a different life. He knows there will be rough patches ahead; neither of them are likely to be able to change overnight habits that they have built up over the years before they met each other, but if he thinks about it, he can already see that their cohabiting has changed him. He's not as fatalistic as he used to be, not as jaded. People tell him that Sherlock has changed too - not mellowed as such, but at least ceased his one-man war against the Met according to Dimmock and Lestrade. So who knows? Maybe they will grow old and soppy together. 

"You're thinking. It's annoying," Sherlock complains, right on cue. 

"Yeah, but I'm thinking some important thoughts," John mutters. "Like how, when we wake up in your bed tomorrow morning, we'll be able to take advantage of that. And how fast Mycroft's driver might be able to get us back to London tonight given the right circumstances. And about how we need to move or else we'll be discovered here."

"Hmm. All relevant, I suppose." Sherlock sits up and stretches, all long lines and taut muscles, and John has to look away if he wants to be able to get upstairs without limping. Standing, Sherlock turns back to John and offers him a hand, with which he pulls him to his feet. 

John thinks their efforts at stealth are pretty good for two men who have just slept the night on a shared sofa. John's almost sure he's pulled something and he's not certain if that was the fault of the cramped quarters or something more worthy, but they make it back into their room with only minutes to spare before the house begins to stir. They shower separately at John's suggestion (although he puts this next on the list of things to rectify once back at Baker Street) and they shuffle downstairs for breakfast after Sherlock insists that they share a few "Happy Christmas" kisses before they go out to face the family. Just to tide him over he says. 

Everyone exchanges Christmas wishes, handshakes and more kisses all around - these ones, at least, are more chaste than the ones upstairs and John catches Sherlock watching him closely. John is surprised to see Crispian up and dressed, and sitting at the table as if nothing had happened. 

"A good night's sleep can cure many ills," Crispian explains and his eyes cut from John to Sherlock and back. "It's done me the world of good." 

Sherlock's sigh and rolled eyes tell John that he has missed something again. The animosity between these two cousins, although not at the scale of that between Sherlock and Mycroft, is confusing and must be coming from an old wound John assumes; Sherlock has never even mentioned having cousins before and John's never set eyes on him at Baker Street, so the man cannot have irritated Sherlock recently.

There is discussion going on about whether or not they have done their duty with the carol singing and the midnight mass outing as to whether or not they should attend this morning's service too.

"And of course, darling Stefan will be here at some point this morning - I'd hate for him to arrive with the house half-empty," Mrs Holmes says and Mr Holmes agrees wholeheartedly - John thinks that might have more to do with avoiding church than welcoming another guest.

Sherlock, who has been staring into his tea cup this whole time, suddenly looks up.

"And Stefan is?"

"Oh darling, you never listen," Mrs Holmes laughs. "Stefan is Crispian's husband. Remember?"

"He's your what?" Sherlock demands, putting down his cup and leaning over the table towards his broadly grinning cousin.

"My husband. I can't wait for you to meet him. He'll be here in time for lunch."

If John hadn't been looking directly at Mycroft at the time, he would have missed the tiny quirk of his lips that passes for a smile.

"Something else you've deleted, brother mine?"

John watches the exchange. He's pretty sure that Mummy and Father are none the wiser as they tuck into their scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, but Sherlock is taking it in turns to glare at Mycroft and Crispian much more venomously than the last exchange should warrant. 

"Have you been married long?" John asks, trying to break the staring contest that is going on.

Crispian turns to John and smiles softly, his whole face radiating a deep happiness that John recognises. "We got married three years ago, but we've been together for seven years."

"And is he a musician too?" John is rapidly running out of questions to ask, and the tense, silent conversation that is still proceeding between Sherlock and his brother shows few signs of abating.

"He's a set designer, very talented. I went to see a production of Aida in Munich, that he'd created the designs for and, well, it was love at first sight really."

"Lucky you," John chuckles.

"Not really. It took us an age to admit it - both too scared of rejection, I suppose. We got there in the end though."

John watches Crispian carefully. It seems quite a pointed remark to make - quite specific when John had asked the most politely innocuous question imaginable. Perhaps John is getting a glimmer of what Sherlock is so riled up about after all. Does he know that they spent the night together? Does he know that he and Sherlock are starting out on a relationship together (at least John hopes that's the case and this isn't a passing fancy of Sherlock's that he will abandon once his curiosity is satisfied.) 

Sherlock's parents decide on a walk in the garden with Uncle Oswin, who has little say in the matter leaving Sherlock, John, Mycroft and Crispian alone in the house. There is some attempt made at washing up the breakfast things but within ten minutes of their departure the sound of a car drawing up outside draws the mismatched little party to the front door and their first proper view of the snow, which had looked so pretty from the bedroom window earlier.

Crispian's husband is clearly delighted to be reunited with his partner and bounds out of the car almost before it has stopped. Enfolding Crispian in a huge hug, he lifts the man off his feet - no small matter when Crispian is only an inch or two shorter than Sherlock. The man looks more like a rugby player than someone who works in the world of the theatre. He has huge shoulders and a bull neck, dark skin and a smile like he's won the lottery. John can't help but be touched by their reunion. 

John shakes Stefan's hand when they are introduced.

"Nice to meet you Mr Watson," the man says with a strong German accent.

"Doctor," Sherlock corrects without even looking at them. 

"My apologies, Dr Watson."

"It's absolutely fine. I think Sherlock is more concerned about my title than I am, actually."

Sherlock huffs. "You did study for quite some considerable time to get that particular honorific. You deserve to have it used."

Stefan blinks at Sherlock and then his eyes slide to his husband, clearly seeking clarity.

Mycroft breaks the latest awkward pause with an insincere invitation into the house and for tea at which the rest of the party walk indoors, leaving Sherlock and John dawdling behind. 

"Are you okay?" John asks quietly, venturing to place a hand on Sherlock's waist. 

Sherlock seems to deflate a bit from his irate, puffed-up state. "I'm fine. Sorry - I'm out of sorts this morning."

John feels something icy slither down his spine and he withdraws his hand instinctively. Has he overstepped? Is Sherlock having second thoughts?

Sherlock pauses on the threshold and turns to see why John has stopped. He must see something on John's face - to be fair John would be surprised if he didn't as he is suddenly utterly unsure of anything.

"John?" Sherlock frowns and then his face drops, "Oh... oh no, I didn't mean that..." He hurries to John's side and draws him back towards the house and under the porch where they had kissed last night. Their footprints are making a mess of the pristine whiteness that the garden has turned into while they slept.

"I didn't mean that I was out of sorts because of what happened between us," Sherlock says looking very earnest, bending his neck to look into John's averted eyes. "I... it's difficult to explain. I get the feeling that there is more going on here than is obvious to the eye."

"I don't understand," John replies. Just when he thought they were secure in their new situation, he feels it slipping away from him. Sherlock had seemed to be pleased by the change. John might have put Sherlock off this morning in the shower, but that was only because of the chance of them being interrupted by his family. John doesn't yet know how Sherlock is going to take to the physical side of their relationship - he's never shown an interest in anything sexual in the months that they have lived together. John doesn't want to force him into something he'd rather do more rarely and by the same token, he doesn't want to make Sherlock mark him down as a walking libido or a 'once a month and on birthdays' kind of guy either. He knew changing the nature of their friendship was going to have its challenges, but he hadn't expected to come up against them so starkly within two hours of waking up with the man in his arms.

"You're thinking again. Are you perhaps...?" Sherlock wraps his hand around John's bicep, trying to make him engage, but John feels too raw, too exposed.

"Here you are," Crispian announces, pulling the front door open, as if they didn't already know that. 

Sherlock's shoulders stiffen again and his eyes narrow. His mouth becomes a grim line as he turns his face towards his cousin.

"What now?" he demands rudely.

"I see you found the mistletoe I put up yesterday, or did you already discover it when you came in last night?"

Both he and Sherlock look up immediately - they must look rather comical from distance. Sure enough, hanging there from the broken porch light is a small bundle of the mistletoe they had so inelegantly retrieved yesterday. 

Crispian's face is the picture of innocence, a mild smile and wide eyes but Sherlock looks wary now.

"Who put you up to this?" he asks as if they were in some bad black and white gangster movie. 

Crispian puts his hands up in a universally recognised gesture of surprise. He shakes his head. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Well that makes two of them. 

"But everyone is in the kitchen, like all the best gatherings. Auntie has just put the kettle on - I'd hate for you to miss out. I hear there are more mince pies promised. But I'll just leave you to it, shall I? I'm sure there will be some left. " He gestures at the mistletoe and slips back through the door, closing it behind him, like some weird mystic. 

Sherlock is frowning after the man, but as his gaze turns back to John it softens and he manages a quarter of a smile.

"I have a feeling that everyone thinks they are being very subtle and clever," Sherlock grouses, sliding his hand down John's arm and twining his long, cool fingers through John's. He drops his gaze to their joined hands and grips John's fingers tighter.

"That sounds familiar," John responds with feeling. Sherlock leaves him in the dust on a daily basis intellectually speaking. John is no slouch but spending a few days at the Holmes household has him feeling like he couldn't find his own arse with two hands and a map. It's not a feeling he enjoys but if anyone is worthy of feeling superior, it would be Sherlock. In some things. Only some, mind you. 

Sherlock chuckles and begins to play with John's fingers. It's such an un-Sherlock gesture that John is fascinated and charmed by it. He doesn't know if it's because it's Christmas or because he's home or if he's conducting some esoteric experiment, but he hopes, he really hopes that it's because of what they are becoming to each other.

"I think there's a possibility that we are the victims of a misguided attempt to make a match between the two of us."

"Misguided? How's that?"

"I had it all in hand, John," Sherlock says loftily.

"Hardly," John scoffs, drawing a look of mock hurt from his partner. 

"I did! I had a meticulous plan for this weekend by which to impress my many excellent qualities on you, so that you would have little choice but to become mine.”

"I've been yours since the day we met you enormous berk!" John laughs. "So it was all part of your plan that made me finally kiss you last night was it? "

"Of course."

"Is that what all the fuss with the bed was about?"

Sherlock shrugs and sniffs, and John is suddenly struck by a stroke of brilliance that has nothing to do with Christmas or being with the smartest family in the country.

"You've been watching romantic comedies to come up with a plan to get me to fall in love with you," he grins.

Sherlock doesn't need to reply. He may look haughty and dismissive, but his cheeks pink up and he won't catch John's eye.

"That is the best thing I have heard in weeks," John says and squeezes Sherlock's hand.

"You're being ridiculous," Sherlock huffs. "Let's go in before you embarrass yourself any further."

Sherlock goes to turn towards the door but John hangs onto his hand, forcing him to look back. He looks a little flustered and a little bit guilty and completely bloody delicious and John feels a flood of joy reach into every part of his body. The sensation of anticipation is back but softer, tempered by the events of last night. Not  _ something is going to happen,  _ but  _ something is happening right now. Right now!  _ And if John has any say in the matter, it's going to keep on happening for the rest of their days.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he declares. He casts his eyes up and shuffles closer to Sherlock to ensure that they are squarely under the mistletoe. 

"Pagan," Sherlock mutters, but John is kissing Sherlock's smile.

**3.52 p.m.**

It's late afternoon. Presents have been given and received. The feast has been devoured, the Queen has droned out about the Commonwealth and...something - the real Queen not Mycroft, although he does tend to drone on about tedious things too. There was a near miss on the Scrabble game - it all got rather heated and it took John to diffuse the situation between Crispian, Mycroft, Uncle Oswin and Father. Christmas cake has been tasted, mince pies have been hidden (again - and really, if they aren't for Christmas then what  _ is _ the point of them?) Uncle, Father and amusingly, Stefan have all fallen asleep in a post gorging nap and relative calm has descended upon the house. 

Sherlock has taken himself off to the other sitting room. He's not avoiding people per se, but he has been socialising for the last 48 hours and after Scrabblegate, he feels the need to decompress a little. He sits at the piano and idly picks out the melody of the Ode to Joy with one finger.

The door opens quietly and John sticks his head around the edge. 

"Here you are, " he says.

"It feels like that has been the saying of the season," Sherlock grumbles but shifts along the bench in what is clearly an invitation for John to join him.

"Yeah, it has been a bit busy hasn't it?" He sits down as close to Sherlock as he can without being on his lap.

"John, the only time we've had to ourselves is when we bailed out and hid last night. Or when we were asleep. It's exhausting. They're exhausting!"

"Yeah? Was there something you needed a little privacy for?" John's voice is teasing and provocative and he sounds mildly ridiculous but Sherlock can't help the pleased glow that suffuses him and finds its expression on his face in a fond grin.

"There are a few matters that require my attention that I'd rather address behind a door that is not in danger of being opened by my mother at any given moment."

"We're going home tomorrow. Is that soon enough for you?"

"Not really," Sherlock admits, "but it will have to do."

John nods and reaches between them to touch a fingertip to Sherlock's flank where his trousers and shirt have parted company exposing a slither of bare skin. The newness of such intimacy makes Sherlock shiver. 

John strokes once and withdraws. He must have noticed Sherlock's reaction; his face reflects his earnestness when he speaks.

"As slowly as you want, okay? Or not at all. Just because we..."

"John."

"No, really Sherlock. There are no expectations here. This thing doesn't come with a checklist. It's whatever we want it to be."

"John! What I want is you - in whatever form that comes."

To be fair, John does make a valiant effort to suppress the giggles that Sherlock's inadvertent witticism produces. But the second Sherlock catches his eye, he's lost and they are both reduced to idiotic sniggers and snorts.

So when Mummy walks in thirty seconds later with a triumphant, "Here you are!" neither of them can be held responsible for their inappropriate gales of laughter, Sherlock's snorts and John's high pitched giggles. 

Mummy just looks at them both with a bemused but fond smile and waits for a suitable break in their mirth to ask John is he wouldn't mind coming back to the sitting room to adjudicate the argument that has just broken out between Stefan and Uncle Oswin over the venerable and sacred rules of Ker-plunk. 

John pulls himself together enough to follow Mummy out of the room, flashing Sherlock a wink and a grin as he goes. 

He turns back to the piano and, filled with sudden high spirits, he plays the first few phrases of a fast, bright Mozart Sonata - the classical equivalent of how he feels today; bubbly, bright and transported.

Tomorrow they will go back to Baker Street, break the news to Mrs Hudson (who has secretly been jealous of Mrs Turner's married ones all along) and properly begin the process of defining their relationship. Possibly several times in a row if John is amenable. Sherlock might even switch his phone off to ensure that there are no more interruptions. (Lestrade knows better than to arrive in person for anything less than an 8.)

And, single beds notwithstanding, if John cannot be persuaded to a little diversion tonight - and really, sleeping in the same building as Mycroft would be enough to put anyone off their game - Sherlock is prepared to wait. Twenty four hours might feel like a long time but compared to the rest of their lives, it is a vanishingly small price to pay to have his man. John Watson - his guest. His plus-one. His flatmate, friend and the love of his life. 

Fin


End file.
